The Broken Mass of Memories
by Kyasarin X
Summary: All she knew was her name. Not her age, not her past, not her life. She awoke in a jungle—alone. And her memory—or lack of one—was lost. Amnesia. Enter Commander Shepard, dealing with wrongdoings of a rogue turian Spectre. Was their incidental meeting fate? If so, would Shepard help? Would she regain the memories? Or was it all apart of the grander scheme of things? [OC/Trilogy]
1. Prologue

_A/N: Let me start off my saying if you're afraid of long chapters or dialogue, then this isn't the story for you. Run away! This was a story and plot idea that I've had in my crazy head for a loooong time. This is not a character-gets-sucked-into-video-game story. While aiming to be a thorough novelization, it revolves around an OC from the Mass Effect Universe, Shepard, and all of her wonderfully idiosyncratic team mates. Unlike most OC stories, I plan not to have it revolve entirely around the OC mentioned—but there will be a rather important plot created that intertwines her story and Shepard's story and everyone's stories altogether—and because of this, it will not proceed in the way that you think it will. I suppose you could look at this as being the soap opera version of Mass Effect, but hopefully without all the clichés that come with it. Either or, it handles many controversial topics in later chapters such as sex, drugs, alcohol, abuse, trauma, extreme violence, etc. They are all recurring motifs—as well as much foreshadowing if you're the type of person who enjoys looking for things like that. If you wish not to read a story with these types of themes, please do not read. Luckily, I have a few chapters of the story written out before hand so that updates will be regular, and you will have something to look forward to!_

_Lingo is used from many different television shows, movies, books, etc. If you watch Firefly, you will know what I'm talking about._

_Many events may or may not change depending on the addition of this OC—I hope to have parts of the main plot alter, more or less, so as not to get boring or tedious to read. Yet as mentioned before—long chapters, long dialogue! I really wish to make this story as real as possible, what with the addition of a few OCs that emerge much later throughout all three Mass Effect games._

_Anyhow, please enjoy! If you have any criticism, I would love to hear it. I know many will comment on my usage of ellipses […] and em dashes [—], but know that I am very well aware that I use them way more than I should. But I can't help it! They're so great!_

_Thanks, guys! Here it is!_

* * *

**The Broken Mass of Memories**

**Prologue**

At first it was tantalising. A fragrance with no origin permeated the air. It was of fresh ground coffee, complemented by a positively sinful aroma that drenched itself in chocolate and overwhelmed, readily as it could. It pulsated through heightened sensations. Fondling bundles of nerves in slow, heavy throbs, the pleasure shook her to the core.

At first it was melodic. Easy on the ears, the ringdoves cooed amongst the branches. Larks warbled in chestnut trees with staccato whistles. So small—indeed—with brown streaky plumages to which intensified the quality of their songs delivered in flight. The songbirds trilled, shameless, their sweet music from hell to Maine.

At first it was smooth. Long, silky hair spilled over a bosom in tresses as black as ravens, feeling like the finest fabrics of many, and the cheapest care of none. Then it was soft. Winds as merciful and gentle as cerulean waters and golden sands. Like a sea forever trapped, but battered, regrettably, in the eye of a turbulent storm.

At first it was blinding. Suns dazzled for days and hypnotised without pity for sensitive eyes or souls. Stirring vulnerable sight, it shattered inhumanity with shafts of sun-drenched warmth. It never bothered to dim its lustre for fragile creatures. If to perish on the spot for staring, better for them to perish from such beauty painlessly and divinely.

At first it was mouthwatering. Swigging a mouthful of wine with distinctive relish and savouring the clean, salty tang of Gorgonzola. So rich and strong flavoured in bluish-green veins of decadence she had never experienced.

It was all of that and more, the dreams of a dream for which one burned for during the midst of a glum winter where, it could be said, that not a friendly countenance was in sight.

It was all that and then some, as she laid there unmoving.

Perfectly still and precious like that of a porcelain doll. Only covered in filth.

At first it was all of that…

And at last there was the sixth. Invisible to the naked eye, a sensory trait that, to all intents and purposes, existed not.

As opposed to the remaining five that forged these sensually self-indulgent tales of extravagance, the sixth did not deceive her. As tempting as the dream was and tried to be, believing itself to be true to its greatest extent with colourful words—vivid descriptions of what the world could give to her, let her look like, let her be—the sixth could not lie. It was composed of her instincts, most of which were usually wrong and therefore too risky to ever pin one's hopes on. Its position was predetermined, not so different from the life within the dream and, all the same, it was overused and worn out to the point where she had memorised the falsified patterns for what they really were. Or why they gave her the inconstant awareness required, despite its inexplicability in terms of this thing called normal perception.

The hunches of the mind could not lie. Not like the rest of them, so easily weakened and disloyal in their anguish for an outlet. It would not lie. Refused to lie. It was stronger than the false realism that the senses fabricated, naturally, out of desperation.

And therein lied the fear…

Once realised, the skies opened and the tempest erupted. Rain fell endlessly and dropped in brutal bursts that swept whatever was without security away. It purged itself and cleansed away the bad or good. Whatever that might have been. Winds were no longer soft, but chilly. Thunder clapped, as though He had demanded it. Lightning crafted lines across blackness in several misguided paths. The sounds melted away from lullabies to howling shrills.

The magical and awesome dream had faded.

And with it, her cruel faithfulness lived on and devastated whatever artificial pleasure seldom remained in those moments.

Part of her didn't want to leave. It was so nice.

Then again, part of her wouldn't allow herself to stay. Distorted reality was no joke. Of all the places, that was the worst. Where—time after time again—her weaknesses so often, clumsily and painfully, gave into. Its obviousness was enough to cripple those of sane mind, for those whom held their bodies erect arrogantly without fear of retaliation. Why did this perception fail her, one could ask? Well, if not for soothing the pain, then at least to feel a little bit better. Those were one in the same, however.

And all of this…in an attempt to forget…

To let the memories fade for _good_.


	2. Genesis

_"Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,_

_Tears from the depths of some divine despair_

_Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,_

_In looking on the happy autumn fields,_

_And thinking of the days that are no more."_

― _Alfred Tennyson_

* * *

June 6th, 2183

23:30:32 [11:30PM]

Motionless.

She laid exactly as such, though one would assume this as only unknowingly and thus, unwillingly. Her complexion, ever so wan, enhanced a visage marked by years of bruises that concealed themselves beneath knots of hair. Rainfall, though more apt to be deemed a hail of bullets, was all but to blame for such side effects. It hadn't eliminated, however, what was already subconscious. That is, the shaking of a body so frail she knew not whose it was or why it existed. Her eyes were thrown wide open like that of a deer in the path of an oncoming train. She would have rather glued them shut than confront, voluntarily, the myriad emotions that buried her blind. Her short, thin lashes tangled themselves between upper and lower lids. The want to remedy whatever wrong, which was great and plenty, was recognised. Her body, her frame, cowered below the stream of rain, exploded through narrowed branches, thousands of them, twisting amidst the trees and hitting each limb as it went. Or so she assumed. One couldn't tell, for the black sky prevented from seeing beyond a foot from where she awoke.

Arching from the slit of muddy water beneath her hips, she felt sick. No gasp went ignored in its attempts so vicious to escape the lungs, pained by its silly need for activity. Her dull eyes of darkish green penetrated the night sky, one so thick with blackness that the overshadowing moons brought little to its backdrop, blurred and blocked by trees galore. The contours of her hands, beneath an under-lit sky, could barely be seen. In the abrupt movement of a band made of rubber, her chest, frantic to exist, elevated in slight before falling back sharply. Plaintive sobs fled parched lips. Pain rocked in her breast. The severity of both kept the limbs from processing actions to their fullest, and waters—as raw and icy as could be—left her paralysed from the waist down. The conflict, if her mind hadn't been elsewhere, baffled. Heat and humidity contrasted that of which was wet and damp and sticky and this, for the trickles of liquid that plunged from the eyes, meant that it well-nigh could have been anything. Sweat, rain, _tears_.

_Head_, she thought. _Hurts_…

She was incoherent for the most part.

How able she was, how _lucky_ she was, to have supported her chest long enough to sit oblique. Her hair hung in damp snarls, no thanks to the rain on dry earth. A wad soggy and matted that obscured the face. To see around her own would have been inconceivable, and the tempestuous winds didn't help the terrifying predicament. Reliance on the tug of fingers felt their way through, touching her body, touching her face, and for a moment, she felt a substance, one that was easily crumbled, friable, between them. The conditions of the atmosphere seemed to exacerbate the odd substance—make it worse. Unsure of what it was, unknowing of its quality—or quantity—such a mystery, the substance, plagued her, both emotionally and literally, more so clinging literal to the tattered remnants of clothing.

**One. Two. Three. Four.**

It took all of four agonising seconds for a fit of mania to befall upon her, and such a dab of panic that showered the girl ignited unfamiliar and feverish emotions to which, quite flawlessly, coincided with a jagged shaft of lightning that struck from afar. The sudden fear was due only to that hardened substance, which she plucked away at crazily, torn from the skin, ripped by the seams. But everything as it eventuated—all in its phases of banality and slow motion—indicated that she had perhaps been unconscious for longer than one would have liked. Not that anyone _liked_ being unconscious.

Adrenaline or fear, one or the other kicked in. Her eyes turned wild in width. Her scramble to stand was propelled downwards by the sheer amount of rain, a silver and roaring cascade, that stabbed, merciless, somewhere amid the thighs or the calves where senses had long ago died. As her body, weak and fragile and weather-beaten, rose to the challenges, it got off to a wobbly start, for she moved about unsteadily with the physique given to her, which seemed to default to all around general reject for what she wanted. Feet, bare and grimy and cold, twisted beneath her, as though she had never walked a day in her life, and while her lurch crafted surprisingly perfect circles, the true achievement of a walk—or rather a trudge—occurred only moments later.

Once again, touching her body, the substance emerged, chafed against her skin, embraced exposed legs, however, she bothered not to tear away at it, whatever it was. If bending or sitting down to do so, she wouldn't be getting back up anytime soon.

Nevertheless, after a lengthy battle of darkness versus sight and standing versus exhaustion_,_ all she had lost, control and vision, restored itself.

Only…it wasn't what it was all cracked up to be.

Wasn't what she wanted to see.

Far from it.

_W—What._ Her mind stunned. _This is—_

All it took was one body.

One body and the eyes fattened and the screams snapped, and not from the chest, but from the throat. As Amazonian as the jungle impressed upon itself to be, it wasn't what mattered. Not then. Not that moment. Littered were the lifeless bodies of the dead and deader, their quantities innumerable, mud-spattered, and strewn, haphazardly so, every which way from where she stood. Fatalities of carnage, diverse in their numbers, inundated and drowned out the sounds and sights. Only the smell remained. The fetid smell. Her eyes, once squinted and weak, were now broad and bold and traveling from body to body of alien corpses all around. Terrifying the assortment was, of slaughtered batarians, slaughtered humans, slaughtered krogan. Percentages of little had their mugs, their faces, peeled from the bone, where none else remained except the stench of rusting iron so pungent it choked. Yet the abomination, what she had decided in that moment to be a mass grave of rank bodies, sprinkled about the small strip of circular land, seemed apposite to the surroundings.

Necks hung loosely from shoulders—snapped. Frames lacked figure from the norm—cracked. Intestines swung over bloodied middles. Limbs unaccounted for—missing. The established factors, organic or not, had quickened the process of decomposition. They preyed on the weak. They devoured the remnants of a sabotaged mind, crippled senses, whose only offence was preserving the sanity of a single girl, to have ever made an effort to rouse herself from the dream within a dream. To have been shot would have seemed far more preferable compared to the options available and, from the looks of it, few were given such a lenient kill. It would account for the heaps of guns dispersed amongst the ground, too, having assumed it once belonged to the perished.

Overwrought felt so under emphasised in context compared to how she was feeling in that moment. What letters moulded together could make the word to describe just the feeling? Her attempt to avert, eyes and body, became an abrupt backwards topple in the opposite direction, however, the corpses "existed" regardless of route, as if they tracked her movement, and the violent totter of her legs and feet forced her, then, to go left, go right, go straight, go back. There wasn't a way out of it. They had her surrounded. How long they had been there was anybody's guess, but pinpointing why or when or how was simply futile.

Looking up, frightened orbs noted several bodies that swung lax from the arms of trees. It was there she met the eyes of a batarian, face fixed in agony, chest impaled by a branch, and clad in blue and white hues and armour, similar to all the rest, with exception of the krogan. From such a sight, her need to vomit was comprehensible, and despite the want to choke it back, it refused to abate accordingly, agreeably. It had to be released, if only for the sake of things to come, and so it did, it streamed violently out of her system, spilled to the floor, and became one with mud and mire. Her throat, now, was sore and inflamed, more so than before due to all the shrill howling, which, of course, she brought only onto herself. Because of the nausea—no longer existing as an inclination as it was a legitimate action—her figure, despite its fragility, coiled itself into a dangerous and intricate position, hunched over, as small and tight as the body allowed, her hands fell to the knees bruised and discoloured. A spasm of pain contorted the sick, pale face and was smudged with tiny droplets of water that trickled down the jowls from the eyes and black smut. _What is this—_

Hands on her knees, she felt it again. That substance made its presence known.

The crisp and crumbly dye was cemented, glued, to parts of the body, smothered her whole, destined to keep her fazed for all eternity.

Peeling it off, however, in the slowest of motions, her eyes slitted in dawning realisation. It flung seconds later into the air by force of that very same hand.

Dried blood. Lots of it. Plainly solidified. Dangled to tatters that even a beggar would scorn. _Blood. Blood? Mine? No. Not mine. Not my blood. Not mi…_

As garbled as the thought was, the message she hoped to make clear beget another one, far more precarious than she had failed to realise even from the start!

_Where…?_

To say thinking felt painful sounded comical, but it was true. The beats rolled on by by—seconds or minutes—before she buried a head brimming with doubt into her hands.

She spoke out loud, or rather just _out_, as the rasp of her voice was as pitiful as a whimper.

"Wh—Who—Wh—"

Imagining oneself with no existence to speak of felt like this. Just like this.

She had forgotten it all. All of it, all the recollections, all the memories. Herself. Her being.

She could barely fathom the idea of having no inkling of where—or even _who_—she was.

It seemed she'd come alive in the worst of places.

The epitome of purgatory, the place—that state of suffering—inhabited by the souls of sinners expiating their sins before going to heaven. It oozed through the cracks of trees, breeding new snippets and seepage of fear and angst, however, she wasn't without knowledge completely. She knew of all the galaxies, all of the worlds, all of the clusters, and all of the aliens that colonised them and loathed humanity with a passion. It was her own past that remained the mystery. Any and everything up to that moment in time was forgotten and feared irretrievable.

No time could be spent on that now.

Just then, voices, distant and muffled, untimely diverted her, caught her attention. They came to pass within the serpentine trails of the forest from nearby. Their grunts, though faraway, were carrying. It implied that it wasn't just one or two or even three, but many that travelled beyond the tangled mass of stumps. The first was low, grating. Australian, maybe. "We've been at this for nearly an hour, mate. No way she made it this far. We have to be somewhere out beyond the black stump by now!"

"I'm not the poster child for motivational speeches here," one growled, "but you heard what _The Boss_ said!"

"Yeah, yeah. Come back with the girl or don't come back at all," said another. His cracked voice was likely indicative of a different species.

"Don't know about you, but I'd want to get my hands on those five-hundred thousand credits sooner rather than later—"

"No matter how sordid, eh?" the Australian chuckled.

"Shad' up, will ya?" the batarian barked. "Put The Boss' nose out of joint and you won't like the consequences. 'Sides, the stories of those who irk him aren't greatly exaggerated. Nobody makes it back in one piece from what I've heard!"

"You gotta' ask yourself who tells the stories in the first place then, huh?" joked a third. The apparent lack of laughter, for what he assumed to be a decent one-liner, was an indication for him not to quit his day job.

"You're a comedian now, are you? Well,_ ha, ha, fuckin' ha_ to you," the batarian replied. "I've heard funnier shit spewed from _schizophrenics with depression_."

The Aussie interjected, "Hey, all we knows is the girl's gotta' be breathing. If that's all we need to turn out, the rest should be a cakewalk."

"All we've _done_ is followed a trail of stinkin' corpses that's most likely gonna' lead us right to the boondocks," groaned a fourth. "_Ay_, we're roaming in circles here!"

"Who can tell? What with this being considered the most _densest shit jungle_ known to the Milky Way."

"Aren't you an optimist?" the same comic bantered.

One, surprisingly not the piqued batarian, snarled, "If I put my dick in your mouth, will that shut you up?"

The batarian sighed; "And you humans wonder why humanity's been historically oppressed for so long?"

"Ladies, let's change the subject?"

It emerged from behind the clan of tawdry mercenaries, a voice that thundered with dramatic composure. Faces changed course to eyeball the gentlemen whom, relatively seasoned unlike the bulk, parted his minions like the red sea—if only to intimidate. His crooked nose set above his strong chin reinstated an air of superiority which could not be debated. His stroll through hired mercs proved unsettling when he reached the end in a cool show of authority, displaying a set of fearsome teeth that shook both men and aliens to the core. All in all, he was very much mismatched with such foolhardy crowds.

"Aye," a hireling spoke to him. "You don't actually believe she did all this, right?"

Their superior, for lack of a better title, hadn't much to say, continuing his trek. He harboured no concern for freezing them all out. It prompted groans and growls alike, but one batarian took advantage of the silence. "Well, if you'd have asked me_, _I'd have told you I didn't believe in much anymore. 'Specially the idea of an eighty-pound girl taking out this many mercs!"

"Good thing no one _asked_ you, then!"

"Don't underestimate her," said the leader, exuding dark mystique. His eyes followed a trail—one ever so deadly and fatal—of deceased aliens leading further into the jungle. "You'll regret it."

"Wasn't this what _The Maccabees _were for?" inquired the jokester. "Sure, The Boss hired us for an abduction. That's simple. But hadn't he bought out that entire mercenary unit years ago? For the wet work, anyway. Why us? Why not them?"

"One thing I'd finally have to agree with, mate," said the Aussie. "Maccabees made a name for themselves decades ago. Tightly packed unit of less than a hundred souls comprised of a select few of batarians and humans…"

"_Were_. Past tense," said the irked batarian. "Look around, numb-nuts. They've all crossed the great divide—or whatever you meat sags call it. And we're the ones on the wild goose chase for some kid…"

"You don't take this stuff seriously, do you?"

"Like I said. Eighty-pound girl don't cut it for me."

"She could be a _fat_ broad," answered the humorist.

"Yeah? So could your mother."

"My mother killed herself, dip-shit."

"I couldn't possibly imagine why!" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Once the job is done with, we'll shimmy off this jungle rock, bring her to The Boss, get paid, and live a life of luxury and endless harlots!"

"'Course! And for now, we'll squander our time raking leaves and stepping in the shit of carnivorous deformed pyjacks!"

"That's the spirit! Them Maccabees don't got nothing on us!"

Despite their recklessness, the band of imbecilic mercenaries knew when to stop and when to go. When their figurehead came to a halt, the rest shadowed his movement. Turning to them with a grin so lopsided it hadn't seemed real, he spoke...

"I resent that. Most of us Maccabees may be dead, but that doesn't mean we're extinct—or _deaf_ for that matter."

"You ought to know more of what happened here than us. We were hired only a few hours ago and The Boss didn't tell us jack. You've been with The Boss for a good while, right?"

"Weren't these guys your comrades?"

The leader stooped his head low for a better look at those whom shared an exact replica of his blue and white armour. "There was camaraderie at one point, _surely_. Now?" His hesitancy lasted for longer than he would have liked. "What I may or may not know is irrelevant toward the likes of you and yours. If you must pry, the dead krogan seen before you have no affiliation with The Boss or his Maccabees. They were with the turian. As for the rest of them, yes. _Satisfied_?"

"You're definitely torn up about it, aren't you?" The Aussie found his stoical facial expressions unnerving.

"A mission was botched, that's all I know. Meaning I'm most likely one of the last original Maccabees standing…"

Their risky traverse resumed into the uncharted when the leader took off.

"Still don't see why this girl's so special. What's she got that others ain't, eh?" the comedian said. "Three tits?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't mind it…"

"Nasty, man!"

The voices were distorted, and thus, she was able to pick out bits and pieces of the conversation. However, the tone gradually ascended—louder—to the point where she had no choice but to hide or get caught. Her panic was vocal, a result of heart palpitations that exceeded from the norm, escalating into obvious anxiety. One's initial thought would be to cut and run, despite the gel that had become her legs, but there was no time for that now. Yet she had a will to keep out of sight. That was all that mattered.

"This reminds me of what happened back on the Teltin facility with Cerberus' girl!"

"Like you would know," the Aussie exclaimed. "That crap never happened. Those were rumours and everyone knows it."

"I thought y'all made it so she couldn't do crap like this no more, right?"

"With most of us dead, it puts The Boss in a tricky predicament. He needs stealth and contingency plans," groaned the leader. "This is one of them. It's why you sorry sons-of-whores for hire are out here salvaging."

"Aw. All work and no play makes the merc a dull boy. Heard you Maccabees were like that!"

"We've a tendency to be good at what we do. If that's what you mean. It's why we make more credits in a week than you five little shits combined make in a year. If that bothers you, then take it up with your own inability to get the gravy."

"But something went wrong with this supposed smooth run, eh?"

"Is that the polite term for it?" one of the batarians mocked.

A low guttural sound of opposition was manifest in their superior's voice. Acting as one of many kingpins in his industry, he had to ask himself why The Boss would ever hire such dullards. They were soldiers of fortune recruited per The Boss' orders, no matter how much he resented it. _These dimwits were hired just hours ago and already they think they're all-professional, all-understanding of The Boss. As if they knew the stakes. They know nothing. Ridiculous. __They have no clue The Boss will kill them as soon as he gets back what was stolen from us. He never employs rejects like this. Not unless he was in a hurry. Then again…_

His eyes migrated from body to body. _I can't blame him. This is bad. If she's out here by herself…_

Just the thought sent chills down his spine. _Five years and you would think she got the picture by now._

A stone's throw away, now, the voices. What had they been going on about so openly? Her hearing abilities were more than inaccurate, and thus, she found it best not to misinterpret the conversation, no matter how atypical. Looking around wildly, searching for some form of refuge, it finally appeared in the form of a boulder, where quashed figures of assumed mercenaries lay sprawled. Plenty of second thoughts had time to stall her, but the voices approached faster, reinforced her to decision to keep on. Hunkered below—calves smarting—she saw the face of a dead krogan looking back at her, and ravaged with fright, she shoved him away, so as not to be haunted by its face.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Think I may have found the jackpot!" Motioning with a free hand, one of the mercs trod cautiously down a strip of land that would lead into the circular space, making as little contact as possible with the inert bodies. He was the first to notice the sudden upsurge in dead souls, to which prompted his exclamation. Tracking the bodies of the deceased, as they had done all along, led them into a spacious and spherical type of terrain rimmed by a plethora of tall, menacing trees. The boughs of those trees, however, extended above and beyond the tract of land, obscuring the gunmetal skies and wan light of the moons.

Assessing their knowledge of the planet so far, the landscape wasn't so unconventional.

"Holy fucking hell_—_"

The disembodied voices could now be matched to faces, many unattractive and bulky in their presentation. Garbed in weighty armour and defensive weaponry, it was enough to destroy a small colony if need be. Their arrival had seemed surprisingly bathetic and, at the same time, daunting. Her reasoning behind this judgement failed to convince her why this was. If she had to guess, the blame could be placed upon that _man_. The _man_ whose behaviour, noticeably unperturbed, clashed with the generality of awed faces behind him. Such a lukewarm display, however, seemed awfully familiar to her.

The faces changed dramatically, one by one, little by little. They had trailed the road of bodies expecting the worst, however, the culmination of their two-hour-long trek was nowhere near their initial assumptions, nor was it gratifying or reassuring in the least. Their cautious, horrified miens were beyond predictable. The smell was unwelcoming; blood had deluged the mud; and bodies, crumpled next to one another, clustered in piles of what could have been considered an alien genocide from an unknowing third-party, all contributed to their reactions, and rightly so. The evidence of such a major struggle before them corroborated their theories.

"Christ, one would think a nuclear bomb went off," murmured the Aussie.

"Doesn't seem too far-fetched. How does someone even do this?"

"Physically, you mean?" said the merc. "Impossible. Only species I've met who can take down krogan in one inning are krogan themselves!"

"Add batarians, humanity, and that bit of inactive geth we saw earlier into the mix. You've got yourself one hell of a mind rape!"

Her face squished into an unsightly frown. _Geth_?

Their leader, so savvy in his elegant and easy gait, was emotionless. Each body he saw prompted no reaction—except one. Furrowed brows made for an ugly face that hunched to the murdered man's level. A colleague of his. Out of the lion's share, he was awarded the most inimical damage. Even through his thick-set armour, his body had been torn to shreds, and his face, forever frozen in distress, looked somewhat sad from the way the corners of his mouth dropped into a grimace and frown all at once. His eyes had been disgustingly gouged out, too.

The leader remained calm. _Doesn't__ surprise me. It's almost poetic. The most brutal of us all dies—brutally._

"You knew him?" The voice shattered his train of thoughts.

"Called him Belial," their superior said. "More or less considered our chief. But of course The Boss was his. He was a good man. Even better mercenary. A favourite."

"He has favourites? _Shiny._"

"Do your job well. Get treated like a king," he said. "Damn it, _Belial_."

"I'd send my regards, but then I'd remember that I don't actually _give_ a fuck about your syrupy feelings. Grow a quad," the batarian growled.

"And to think I thought you were a gentle soul," he replied, sarcastic.

The batarian snorted. "When I want to be—"

"How can you two be making jokes after you nearly ball-squashed me?" said the contrived gagster of the group.

"Jesus, if stupidity was bliss you would be overjoyed by now, wouldn't you?"

"I'm sorry, but is everyone blind to the fact that we're meandering through a damn extermination of aliens? Only a tyrant could be capable of this!"

With eyes that drooped, she watched them go about their business. Apparently to retrieve whatever trinkets that could be reclaimed, as well as evidence of a particular somebody, certain in their minds, that they had been hunting down, as if a prey, an animal. The thought that it could have been her never crossed her mind. Only the want to escape. Her body felt like a bundle of mush, but at least she would try, make the attempt. That was saying far more than what some people could not do for a lot less. Her slither was slow—impulsive—and inched away as it could on all fours, like that of a crab, traveling past guns aplenty. She could have easily grabbed one. Perhaps have used it in self-defence. Then again, she was more likely to shoot her own foot much less some merc's cerebrum. _Go. Go. Get away. Have to..._

One eye watched the mercenaries, ferreting away at the dead, and the other attempted to direct her through the cluster of bodies. She realised the alleged plan was, more or less, unwise, but being desperate pushed people to do unthinkable tasks. All traces of intellectual stimuli had been thrown out the window by that point on.

However, the neediness to flee proved to be too hasty, an impetuous afterthought, which put at risk the inaptly named plan devised in those last seconds. Such was obvious when her fingers converged, incidentally so, with one of the many unlocked pistols lying half-camouflaged in watery sludge, belonging to those already dead. One wouldn't haven been surprised, then, that it fired in the ensuing seconds at the unmistakable—accidental—touch of her palm.

Bullets then flew horizontal to the ground in brisk sparks! It took a few moments subsequent for her to finally jerk the hand away in horror, feeling a jolt of energy electrocute her entire limb. It was a feeling like none other.

With eyelids that peeked upwards in the slyest of motions, the vast eyes of bewildered mercenaries gawked back at her, mouths agape with shock. The shots had taken them off guard, the mercs, and caused half to hold their weapons aloft, by sheer reflex, and those left to turn about themselves to locate the origin of the noise. That's when they spotted the woman, half-disguised, crouched away, hid beneath mossy tree trunks and mucky mud that caked a high percentage of her ashen and bruised features.

Her face blanched, solely at the fear of being discovered before a man stepped forward, in all his ignorance, and mumbled aloud. "Hey, isn't that—"

It was odd because, on the face of it, they seemed terror-stricken, faltering in their stances, like callow children. However, both parties failed to make any sudden movements within the few brief, tense moments. They simply gaped, frozen, almost as lamely as her. As if waiting to see who would act first. This tournament of stares lasted for a second more before natural inclinations voiced their fears and worries, setting into motion a jolt that brought the girl to her feet. The wails of muscles, sore in their place, were ignored, despite how they fought against her and the one-eighty that scurried her off into the jungle without a second thought or cold feet. All of this, as it happened, came unthinkingly, leaping over stumps and branches that hindered the oncoming path.

The mercenaries continued to watch, dense and confused before her body receded into the large clump of towering trees. "Is she…running?"

"Don't just stand there," the commander yelled, baring his gun and sprinting forward. "Move!" The flock of men were forced into action, following the actions of their leader and pursuing the progress of the young escapee! Priming their guns, they shot any impediments that stood in their way.

Having a running start was a blessing in and of itself, but that was all the young woman had going for her. The painfully self-evident inadequacy on their part was likely the only plus in the situation, and that wouldn't last forever. Mother Nature did everything in its power to slow her down along the way. What had she done, she wondered, to deserve such discrimination against her? Why had the serrated edges of angry trees claw away at whatever else remained? Why had the poisonous offshoots that slung over plants prickle and sting? This, adding to the series of disfigurements chafed against the raw skin, couldn't be avoided, couldn't be challenged.

Her pursuers wouldn't withdraw, either. This was well obvious, for their need to talk didn't hamper their burden or ability to hasten even through the dark labyrinth of the jungle. She was certain a shot by a gun from a distance would befall upon her, so she would feel the weight of her frame buckle, so her body would feel solely the burn of a cavernous hole in her back. However, she hadn't felt the impending doom of a bullet pierce her spine.

Not yet, anyway.

"You said she would fight back? Why isn't she fighting?"

"Don't give her any ideas!"

She cried out, though less of a cry and more of a long piercing howl, mostly at the ludicrous amount of obstacles in the way. _Fast—Move! Mo—_

That moment demonstrated the truth of pain and hurting where bones in her body, enraged by perseverance to run than rest, gave her plenty of forewarning.

The churn of her stomach weakened her resolve to take even another step forward, but she couldn't stop.

Even when the shrapnel of a tree branch cut her leg passing by, she couldn't stop.

The scarlet drops of liquid that trickled off the calves of her legs because of it fell onto the dirt floor into a tiny trail of puddles—like that of bread crumbs.

"There's no reason to run! You need to come back with me. I won't hurt you, Calliope!"

That threw her off big time and resulted in a misstep or two. _Calliope? Calliope. Calliope. My name. Name. Mine. Name?_

The voice was identified with ease. It was that man, ever so different and competent and calm. He spoke with such sincerity that it almost bewildered her to a halt.

_Calliope...am I...is that...me..._

Thinking about what he said took a toll on her, took a toll on Calliope. The name. The surrender. Giving up. To have run for so long where it felt nearly like eons, one couldn't possibly keep up the stunt much longer. Conceding defeat sounded ideal. It wasn't a question of pride as it was simply fatigue. Was what they'd do to her worse than what she endured now? _Don't. _

Her head spun to and fro through the blackness and the wind and the rain to glimpse at those that gave chase.

No one was there, however.

Just that very same blackness and wind and rain.

Feeling just a tad safer, Calliope trusted what her eyes created, albeit one would have known better than to place such firm belief in a person she did not know.

Her pace began to slacken; the run became a trot, but with a mind in shambles, it looked to be more of a blundering in the darkness.

It all seemed fine until Calliope returned forward only to dig her heels into the dirt to keep from tackling the sudden body of another! It was there widened eyes met the barrel of a pistol! The moment called for an exclamation of what could only be presumed as her final moment.

Yet the death never came.

With each tired flicker of the eyes, Calliope realised the gun gone from vision and replaced with the owner, a human woman.

Beguiled by the beauty of the woman, Calliope felt her jaw drop, muscles tighten, irises dilate. The stranger's face was that of an aesthetic gift, weighed down by an angular visage of wounds and handsome scars that spoke novels of her lifetime, and her long, blonde hair brushed against broad shoulders, stopped atop her breasts, and coexisted with orbs of grey and blue hues that penetrated those of bloodshot emerald. This odd woman, as anonymous as everyone else, seemed terribly unfazed, however, leaked a bit of concern detected only by the tightened creases that shaped her face.

Just then, the woman stepped forward, and Calliope flinched rearwards, face bending out of its normal shape. The mere sight of another human being threw her into a frenzy, regardless of friend or foe, and the terror that existed there was painfully pronounced, especially to the woman, to the stranger, who exuded a type of sympathy that somehow appealed in her where it would miserably fail in others.

The woman's intentions were not to frighten. This was shown to be true by her own reaction, however, looking at Calliope—who was breathless, whose skin looked to be made of ash—something was awry.

"Don't be afraid of me," said the woman. "I won't hurt you."

Her voice was like velvet, soft. Her hand was extended outwards.

Calliope wouldn't know it, but many questioned the stranger's way of approaching people. They claimed she was too contrary, bipolar.

Depending on her mood, she was more than likely to shoot someone in the face as opposed to lend a helping hand. Tonight was a different story…

The young girl, Calliope, stood hunched with trembling lips, practically blue from the rain, and words fought long and hard to articulate, however, only a measly grunt could suffice, was all that could be managed. The fear she held for the woman in question might have been lessened and not so severe if not for the break of psychosis that had been endured prior from the chase.

However, it didn't stop Calliope from staggering forward, even in all her dubiety, to reach the woman's fingertips.

The contact was never linked, however.

Buckling under the pressure, the occasion of touching another's flesh never came to be, and at the sight of the falling body, the woman, in all her soldiery tendencies, caught her, in what was a critical moment before giving way completely to the ground. The sudden bout of unconsciousness looked to be Nature's humane way of giving repose to a girl who sorely needed it, but what was a civilian doing on a backwater planet like this in the first place?

The woman hadn't time to mull it over before her head snapped upwards at the sound of leaves cracking underfoot nearby from those of footsteps falling one right after the other in quick succession.

It was only seconds before the horde of men exposed themselves to view.

Not all that surprised, but faintly intrigued, the woman leapt behind the shelter of a semi-large rock where, swiftly, carefully, she waved her gun aloft as a sign.

The girl's immobile body remained in her arms.

"Girl's got backup!" a man yelled.

The older woman looked amazingly untroubled, as if nothing shook her, as if there were nothing she couldn't handle.

As she snuck a stealthy glance at Calliope, the woman turned, extremely interested, toward her foes. They assembled behind their own retreats, however, such soldiers—unsuitably titled—provided themselves with lacklustre concealment.

"We're not here for trouble, lady! All we want's the kiddie you got hiding back there. Give her to us and we'll let you go easy. It'd be taking a plate off your handful!"

One man gave his compatriot a look of uncontrolled incertitude. "Idiot! It's a _handful off your plate_! Not vice-versa!"

Moronic or not, though presumably the former, the woman wasn't amused by the alleged show of intellect.

"Hate to be the one to break it to you," she said calmly, "but this isn't a negotiation."

Her gun felt the tightness of her fingers around the trigger.

On cue, the woman propped Calliope, lifeless and limp, up against the boulder for stability. "What business do you have with the girl?"

"None of your damn concern!" Loud, firing shots spurted from a slew of guns without the say-so of—whom she assumed to be—the leader of the pack.

"We need her alive! Stand down!" the leader exclaimed with a growl. He spoke with conviction, but it wasn't enough. The mercenaries who cared not for the consequences of their actions wanted to ignore the reprimand, and such was made much too clear based upon the grimaces that shaded those unattractive mugs.

However, it failed to prevent a certain Australian mercenary, overzealous, from disobeying said orders. "Kill her and nothing stands in our way! I'll be damned if I get cheated out of my money by some floozy bounty-hunter! If we hit the girl, it's nothing a bit of medigel won't fix!"

"Stand down!" said the enigmatic leader, now losing his cool. "That's not your decision to make!"

"Neither is it yours!"

So audacious was the mob. Foolish, too.

Stepping ahead, the Aussie rashly discharged his gun and was joined by several others soon after.

Exhaling a breath, a mix between a sigh and growl, the woman's back was pressed against the solid cover.

The engagement, inevitable from that point forth, brought about the reflected shine of cobalt blue, a hexagonal shield that protected her from the bullets. "Wrong answer, boys—"

Instantaneously bullets soared between both sides. One contrary to at least five others bar the man dressed in blue and white armour, the leader. Numbers didn't matter in this case. It was achieved without great effort and presented few difficulties. With ease, the bullets danced from her gun, with a type of mechanical regularity in amazingly fluid motions—seamless. This brought the number of enemies down significantly. It wasn't her intention to eliminate them. If they had simply answered her inquiries and not threatened to pump her full of led, the whole situation could have been evaded. Concussive shots, cruel and explosive, pitched mercs into the air, killing them quickly and thus, mercifully. To finalise the action, multifarious rounds of bullets introduced themselves to the craniums of the batarian-joint-human adversaries, finishing them off, deeply moved by her emphasis to pack a punch.

Soon, they were dead. All had been gunned down with the exception of one, the leader, who had become inadvertent collateral damage, fatally injured. He had attempted to quell his soldiers' devil-may-care attitudes earlier, and failed to do so, resulting in their deaths.

Retreating from the boulder, the woman stepped over the inanimate bodies, casual, and fixing her gaze on their slain leader.

For now, he breathed assuredly.

"Medigel won't save you. Hell, it won't even ease the pain. You're too far gone," said the woman. "Though that's more your fault than it is mine, don't you think? You need to learn to control your soldiers. They got out of hand."

"Them? My _soldiers_? Please, don't _embarrass_ me before I die."

"My mistake, then," she said. "I assumed you were in charge."

"Why?" He coughed out spurts of blood. "Because they're moronic?"

"Let's just say there were plenty of warning signs."

"Ha," he weakly chuckled. "They're the bottom. The leftovers…"

"There are more of them?" Her thoughts drifted curiously and she stepped closer. "Or more of _you_?"

The woman spoke in terms of experience and prowess. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, she knew he had been different. He wasn't the same as the others—those that had been bereft of any clear or rational aptitude.

"Ah," he breathed. "Dead men tell no tales."

"You're not dead…" Her eyes flickered to him in a cool show of poise. "Not yet, anyway."

The man was silent, and such lead her to resume the interrogation, which had every possibility of being cut short by his demise lest she quickened the queries along.

"You were hired then…to kill that girl? Why? By who?"

A laugh, ear-splittingly loud, rocked in his chest, and for that, he skilfully dodged the question for another. "You look familiar. How do I know you?"

Reluctant to answer, she spoke. "Shepard. Commander Shepard of the SSV Normandy."

"Alliance, huh? Figures. All you dead weights look the same to me. Should have guessed it by that N7 garb you got going on."

"I'm saddened to hear you say that," Shepard said in genuine disappointment, "but you're avoiding the question. Why would a bunch of mercs—_incompetent mercs_, at that—partake in the pursuit of a civilian?"

A silence once sinister was now filled with cackles. His own, obviously, that emerged in an eruption of sounds with the quality of a male in fine mettle. She hadn't expected to hear such strength of voice from a man at death's door. "Civilian? Oh, that's rich!" Spit spattered from his lips and dribbled down his chin. To know that he—a once placid and admirable man—was lowered now to a mere vegetable status was laughable. A soldier of his superlative calibre, a belief he admired and believed in wholeheartedly, ought to go out with a bang. Not a whimper.

Opting to distract her, he inched his fingers through mud and mire to tighten his hold against a heavy pistol lying adjacent of him, hidden in the soil.

Shepard hadn't seen it.

"You want her? _Take her_. Let's see how long you last."

"Elaborate?" _How long I last? The hell does that mean?_

"Why should it matter?" His hands finally stretched around the helve of his weapon. "Either way, you'll die—"

Brandishing his weapon in delirium, he was shockingly quick.

Commander Shepard was quicker.

The shots from her pistol echoed for miles, in clear reverberation, and hovered over the now-dead mercenary whose blood trickled, drained from his upper left brow. _I didn't want this. _It ended the way it did, but it left questions insoluble, impossible to solve.

Calliope hadn't changed from her position. No muscle had been budged.

Shepard squatted to meet her level and applied a liberal amount of medigel on copious injuries.

Head tilted in meditation, she stared at the limp body. _Can't just leave her here. _

As gentle and painstaking a soldier, a woman, she was, she picked her up against better judgement and cradled her in muscular arms before resorting to comms thereafter as means to communicate freely.

"Joker? Do you copy?"

"Have you loud and clear, Commander," Joker's voice confirmed. "Need something important or is this just a friendly booty call?"

The dry witticism, expected of her helmsman at the worst possible time, was ignored.

"Tell Chakwas to have all medical equipment at her fingertips. We're going to need it."

"Someone hurt?" he asked—unsettlingly eager, it should be stated. "Did the turian's heavy-ass armour finally get the better of him? Man, I knew it would screw him over the moment we picked him up at the Citadel! Tell me he fell down a twenty-foot hole filled with lava. Cause that would never get old!"

"Not exactly," Shepard replied. "We've picked up an additional guest. Critical condition."

His voice hesitated. "Your definition of guest differs from likely the entire human population. Is this a _nice_ guest or a mass-murdering _psychopath_? Because based from recent experience—I don't think you _know_ the difference."

"_Joker_—"

Shepard gritted through her teeth, sending the pilot into abrupt action.

"On it in two shakes!"

After logging out, Shepard wrinkled her nose and started up her omni-tool for coordinates of her location. Small fiery particles at the vein of her wrist worked together in producing a holographic screen, a bright reddish-yellow colour like that of the skin of a ripe orange, and inside were elements, meticulous as could be, that would simplify the nature of things. More specifically—the distance between herself and the Normandy, which had docked on-world. Though such was classified as a rare occurrence on uncolonised worlds, it wasn't infeasible, and luckily, the Normandy wasn't too remote from her whereabouts.

However, she hadn't forgotten about Vakarian and Alenko, the two soldiers that had kept her company throughout this joyride hellhole of a mission.

On the verge of contacting the former, the turian beat her to the punch. "Shepard?"

The comms crackled for a beat before his voice came through clearly.

"Kaidan and I found something worth taking a look at. It's, uh, dismaying—to say the least."

"You're not the only one, Garrus…" Having initiated her walk back to the Normandy, she asked, "What's your status?"

"Pretty gut-churning stuff here, Commander," added Kaidan. "Don't know what the hell happened, but it's tantamount to a war zone. Illustrations wouldn't do it justice. You need to see this, ma'am."

"I'm kind of tied up, Kaidan. Can't it wait?"

"Doubtful. I'm sending you a feed through your omni. Be ready for it."

Sighing, Shepard shifted Calliope to the other limb to make room for the image. For two equally adept men to have described the spectacle so harshly, it meant that it was mightily important. Before another thought could make way, a three-dimensional optical picture materialised from her forearm, generated by the interference of light beams that shot out vertically from the limb.

It was then she understood her comrades concern.

Staring back at the atmosphere, baleful and dark, Shepard looked solemn. It was set against the backcloth of terrain in a mid-sized space that lacked the usual twists and snarls of overgrowth, and the "decor" was hardly pleasing to the eyes. Victims of what looked to be an alien liquidation caked the grounds in congealed blood masses and missing body parts. The sufferers were manifold: batarians, humans, krogan! There had been a battle of bloodshed.

She looked at Calliope. An apt setting, it seemed, for someone as shambolic as her…and that wasn't good. To have hoped for a guiltless demeanour, Shepard should have known that was impossible. It would have been too easy. Easy was never as good and grand as it wanted to appeal toward others.

Lt. Alenko continued scanning the area for Shepard to inspect, but at the midpoint situated an intriguing fact. Their armour. All of them—apart from the krogan—seemed to sport the exact suit of armour, white and blue-hued, that the hired leader had worn. Before Shepard finished him off. What connection could there have been between the two? And what of Saren or the geth, whom they had found traces of both on the deserted soil earlier.

_It's the reason why we landed on this godforsaken planet in the first place…_

Kaidan's voice broke the musings. "Whoever did this was severely pissed off, Shepard. This wasn't just a random act of violence. By the looks of things, this was personal."

"Do what you can for now, Kaidan. I've got my hands full at the moment..." Shepard stared at the body in arms. "_Literally_."

"Find anything useful? Anything to affirm Saren's presence?"

"That would be too easy," Shepard said. "Tell Garrus to meet at the Normandy. Kaidan, stick around and look for evidence. Try to justify what happened out there. That train wreck of a massacre was messy, and messy people tend to leave behind a tad of themselves to be remembered by. Generally_, _by accident—"

"_That_, I can do. But what did you find, Commander?"

It was a simple question, but she found it difficult to reply sincerely. "Something," she murmured, "or rather…_someone_…"

"You mean to say a person? Who is it?" Garrus asked, eager.

"Nameless. Unidentified civilian. Late teens, early twenties. Regardless of which, she was thrown all to hell. Starting to think she was involved."

"How so?"

"Get a load of this. Hired mercs chased after her. Most of them amateurs, but one of them was top-notch. Leader of the pack. Had to have been from a different group. Not with the cretins he was partnered up with, anyway. From the looks of it, I'd say he was part of that wonderfully gruesome display of slaughtered mercs you just saw—"

Kaidan interjected, "You're kidding, right? Do you need backup? What happened to them?"

"Taken care of," she said. "Look, I don't have time to stand here explaining something I can't even understand while this girl bleeds out. You've both been given tasks, let's be sure to see them through—"

Her tonality, even through its terseness, was light and well-meaningful.

"Aye, aye, ma'am," said Kaidan, having left Shepard's holographic screen to piece together the events of the alien decimation.

Garrus, meanwhile, resumed the discussion via comms, after withdrawing from Kaidan's position and embarking toward the Alliance fleet.

"Omni says I'm about a klick away from your location, Shepard. Same distance to the Normandy. If we both start now, we'll meet halfway."

"Copy that, Garrus."

"How injured is the girl?"

"Wouldn't call her a picture of health, that's for sure…"

"No one ever is," he muttered. While Shepard wasn't always in sympathy with Garrus in terms of many things—particularly warfare—_this_, she could agree with.

"I've got a ways to go and I can barely make you out over this thunderstorm. Save the chatter for a later date. We'll assemble outside the Normandy."

Adjusting her position, Calliope's head swung lazily over her elbows.

Garrus answered right away. "Over and out, Commander."

The air in Shepard's lungs, deep and heavy, escaped at breakneck speeds, and peeking at the unmoving girl with a sympathetic eye, she tried, best as she could, to untangle the bits and pieces of soggy black hair that enmeshed itself to disguise the drained complexion. However, it was futile to make that effort without the right aid and materials.

"Looks like it's just you and me, kid."

Perils of the wilderness did not stop the soldier from continuing her walk into the untrodden mud, just to reach the SSV Normandy.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so I've made this chapter even shorter then it was! I hope it helps a bit! I'll admit, it was a bit long. It was initially longer, but I had to cut it short. Most are like this, and hopefully its length will make up for the fact that there will be delays in the future in terms of updates once we get further ahead. If you read this or enjoyed it, please leave a review! I would love to hear your comments, concerns, objections, etc! Thanks, guys!


	3. Comprehension

"_Non nobis solum nati sumus."_

― _Marcus Tullius Cicero_

* * *

June 6th, 2183

17:00:22 [5:00PM]

The Past

Milky Way / Serpent Nebula / Widow / Citadel

Citadel Tower

Six Hours Earlier

Commander Shepard stood in front of the Citadel Council, determined and unwavering. Ever since the Eden Prime incident, everything had gone to hell in a hand basket. Things could only get worse from there, but this would have changed things, and for the better, too. At least she hoped so. It all began with a "supposed" shakedown run, but everyone on the Normandy—Shepard included—knew better than to believe such a poor travesty of a fabrication. With a turian Spectre on board, and Captain Anderson in charge of the commission, the whole thing reeked of discrete motives. Mainly because Anderson would never follow the demands of anyone but himself, Spectre or not. Shepard had been right all along. It was far from the run-of-the-mill shakedown run. It seemed an actual Prothean beacon had been unearthed on Eden Prime, retaining technology embracing immense scientific value! However, because of Eden's close proximity to the dreaded Terminus Systems, the beacon was at risk from mercenaries, pirate gangs, and other detrimental bands of rebels. Using the SSV Normandy's stealth systems, Shepard and her squad had to retrieve the beacon; that was the real mission. It was also an opportunity for Nihlus, a respectable turian Spectre, to assess Shepard's candidacy for the Spectres.

Shepard hadn't really bothered herself with all that. It wasn't as significant as the mission at hand. She had heard of the Spectres, of their prerogatives, particular privileges exclusive to their class, to do whatever obligatory to attain their goals—their political exemption. Being capable of creating your own regulations, however, to rid the Milky Way of evils just seemed incredibly crude and hypocritical. The Council's consideration, mindful of Shepard's achievements, was shocking, surely. It was an honour and terrifying, to possibly serve under the Council as the first human Spectre in the galaxy. Then again, to go about operations with such a narcissistic, intimidating epithet was an approach she avoided. Regardless, things hadn't gone as intended. The Normandy had received a transmission from the once peaceful farming colony, where Alliance soldiers, stationed to protect the beacon from perils, battled under heavy fire from unknown adversaries and requested reinforcements. The sole evidence of their opponents emerged in the form of a massive dreadnought, which hovered above the surface, a fateful blemish on a beautiful, tranquil settlement. Shepard wouldn't realise it then, but it'd marked the beginning of a much more monumental occurrence, fastening itself to every brute and demon that wallowed inside of her now and for years to come.

Corporal Jenkins was dead. Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams was introduced and in tandem they met the startling attacks of geth assault drones, troopers, and semi-artificial human husks that reanimated themselves to kill. The discoveries were innumerable. Nihlus was dead and the beacon was missing, moved onto a tram system made for transferring it to and fro different locales on the colony.

Then...the _vision_.

Even now, she couldn't comprehend its unnerving message. Better her than Lt. Alenko though, who unknowingly put his life in harm's way. If Shepard hadn't rescued him from the beacon's influence, who knew what would transpire, what horrors awaited, or if he could even endure the near delusional apparitions what with an already damaged brain system, no thanks to his L2s. The hallucination was nightmarish—flashes of slaughter, terror, and war, waged by a drove of synthetics that emerged from seemingly nowhere before the Prothean beacon finally exploded. She lost all consciousness thereafter. Fifteen hours later, Shepard stirred in the Normandy's medical unit, much to the relief of Williams and Alenko, the latter of whom was already going through a guilty clause. Dr. Chakwas—the go-to doctor for all things medical, surgical, and lethal—claimed the commander was physically superior, but an increase of rapid eye movement and unusual beta waves concerned her, signifying psychological trauma. What was new? Not like it mattered after gathering more knowledge of Saren via Anderson's intel.

Saren, another turian Spectre, believed to have murdered Nihlus. Despite his legendary status, he was well known for many reasons, one of which involved begrudging the entire human race. If he was responsible for the geth—controlling them—it meant he had gone rogue and the Council _had_ to be notified. Which brought everything back to full circle here…in this moment…

Shepard had gathered enough evidence to prove the validity of the turian's renegade motives through a multitude of resources, thanks to a quarian known as Tali'Zorah nar Rayya who had considerable proof of Saren's sordidness, all derived meticulously from audio files she discovered, and she wasn't the only one. Garrus Vakarian, a C-Sec officer, and Urdnot Wrex, a krogan Battlemaster, all joined the team with both pure and not-so-pure intents on destroying Saren, for their own personal reasons, purging the galaxy of whatever transgressions he had planned.

"Eden Prime was a triumph in and of itself. The beacon has brought the Conduit to us at our doorstep," proclaimed Saren through Tali's audio recordings.

One could practically hear a woman's lips curl upwards into a smile as she answered the turian. "So it seems. Despite the setbacks, we've found ourselves within reach of the Reapers…"

The Citadel Council listened, bereft of speech, shocked by the rude awakenings of such substantial evidence of Saren's disloyalty. He was a superior soldier, one of the best, despite his proclivity for dirtying his hands every so often. To prove those offences, however, would induce quite the fiasco, and the Council knew this well. It was a refreshing change of direction in Shepard's eyes though, to witness the Council get thrown back a step or two. They were of a just system, but had the unfortunate and frustrating tendency to be blind towards others' worries. "The proof is undeniable. Saren is nothing but a miscreant!" He always had a peculiar way of dealing with things—Ambassador Udina—largely through the actions of dislike and petty name-calling. His intolerance and misdoings didn't appeal to Shepard in the slightest, even if for the simplest of means to "gain results" that might not have been warranted. It was only thirty years ago that Earth chanced upon the true meaning of the universe and all its mysteries due to the data cache on Mars. Thirty years wasn't a long time. The arguments against humans—their recklessness, their haste to be at the helm of all, their obstinate outlooks—persuaded most and outweighed the pros and left only the cons. Ambassador Udina was an unforgiving reminder of that judgement, unable to represent himself with a slither of merit to his persona. Shepard could've named a hundred Alliance soldiers more willing of Udina's title. Someone like Captain Anderson, even.

The turian Councilor spoke first. "Indisputable, it is. Saren will forthwith be dispossessed of his title as a Spectre, and all endeavours will be made to see that he answers for his crimes against galactic security."

_Comforting_, thought Shepard, _but are they willing to give up their greatest asset so easily?_

The asari Councilor chimed in, claiming the other voice could be identified as one Matriarch Benezia, an asari given the title of matriarch after entering the final stage of her life. This put Shepard at unease, for Benezia—an influential icon and biotic—was a dominant symbol that would favour Saren's chances of success by a wide margin, grasping several hundred followers for his reign of terror if need be. Shepard changed the subject. "Reapers. Do you know anything about them?"

"Little," replied the salarian Councilor. "I was about to ask the same of you…"

Stepping around the womanly soldier, Captain Anderson stood tall, his posture telling and language informative. "We managed to extract a bit of intel from the geth memory core. These Reapers, as we only know them to be, were an ancient race of machines that obliterated the Protheans before receding from the galaxy…"

"Sounds like something out of a mystery tale, Captain."

"I have reason to believe that as false, Councilor," Shepard added. "The Reapers, according to Tali's reports, are synthetic gods, which the geth worship. Saren wants to bring the Reapers back. That, in and of itself, is reason enough for the geth to follow him. Saren is the prophet for the Reapers' return—"

"—that is a wild assumption you make, Commander Shepard, and frankly, quite absurd," interjected the salarian.

The urge to groan was great, but Shepard stayed unemotional, reluctant to reveal her chagrin so early on. The protests from the Council were predicted far in advance, for they had the unattractive quality of being terribly narrow-minded when they wanted to be. Despite the Council's hesitancy, however, Anderson backed Shepard up one hundred percent, maintaining all of her original assertions. He had deemed it not as improbable as one thought. "Saren is looking for something called 'the Conduit,' pivotal to the Reapers' return. That's why he attacked Eden Prime."

"Conduit? What is that?"

"We're not privy to that information," answered Shepard, "but if it can bring back the Reapers, then we need to prepare ourselves."

The verdict on her part didn't please everyone, including the turian Councilor who seemed most adamant in proving the commander wrong. Perhaps because Saren himself was a turian and felt threatened by the facts most inescapable. "Preposterous, Shepard. Even its format is dreadful. Sounds like the stale pun of a bad joke. Where did these Reapers go? Why not take advantage of a lifeless galaxy all for themselves? Why have we failed to discover any noticeable trace of their alleged existence? If their being was genuine, any species prone to walking and talking and thinking would have chanced upon them somehow—_someway_."

"I seriously hope you're joking, Councilor." Shepard stepped forward in disbelief, tongue pressed against the soft pallet of her mouth, coiling the inside of her cheeks representing how imminent her slow burn was to ready to release. All of it, of course, was manoeuvred in the hopes of not retaliating and making a fool out of herself. "I implore you not to make the same mistake twice. You wrongly questioned me before when I came to you about Saren and refused to see the truth. I'm telling you right here, right now: The Reapers…are…real!"

Despite her zeal, the Councilors were persistent, though the asari Councilor was sympathetic. "Cold, hard facts are essential for these types of accusations."

"The Reapers are merely a mythos, as you humans would call it. An apt lie created by a twisted persona to bend the geth to his will. Nothing more and nothing less."

Shepard shook her head. "You're wrong. Fifty-thousand years ago the Reapers decimated every galactic civilisation in the Milky Way. If Saren gets his hands on the Conduit, they'll do it again!"

It was then Udina attempted to persuade the somewhat slapdash idea of sending a fleet out into the Traverse to take him out, but even Shepard knew one measly fleet would be futile against a turian of Saren's dominance. Worse yet, the Council wouldn't dare risk triggering a war with the Terminus Systems. "We won't be hauled into a galactic engagement over a few human colonies!"

"Isn't that a shade radical, Councilor? Willing, I mean—to let human colonies perish?" Shepard's jaw clenched. "I don't aim to disrespect, but why must humanity have to panhandle for assistance? Isn't the Council's most crucial job maintaining peace within galactic communities—"

Udina interposed, "We're one of them! Shepard's absolutely correct in this matter. I'm done with this Council and their anti-human bull!"

Shepard did a mental face palm. _Jesus Christ, Udina, calm down_. Sharp gasps boomed from bystanders above and beyond and Shepard couldn't blame them. While fair to know someone agreed, lowering oneself to spiteful remarks just emphasised the naivety of the human race even more. If they were to ever get a seat on the Council, they had to take a more approachable tactic.

"Ambassador, be at your leisure," said the asari. "There is one way to fix all this that does not necessitate the use of our fleets and armies."

Curiously, Shepard raised an eyebrow.

"Absolutely not!" the turian Councilor intervened. "I'm not convinced humanity is ready for the Spectres."

The brief silence that slipped past gave Shepard plenty of time to decipher the origin of their conflict and, considering the circumstances, it seemed the most viable option. Before the Council could think better of it, Shepard verbalised her thoughts into words—into action, her voice resolute. "I could do it, Councilor. The Normandy is the most advanced Alliance fleet out there. Her stealth systems make her undetectable. She's the only one of her kind. We could travel to the Traverse, and the Ambassador over there gets his human Spectre—everyone's content."

While irked by Shepard's description of his ideals, Udina knew this to be an optimal idea, and the Council, uncharacteristically silent, took the bait, for their lingering taciturnity was answer enough. Their fingers, one by one, danced upon the keys of the console, all to affirm their final decision on the issue at hand. It was apparent, however, of their choice when the Council beckoned Shepard forward. Her head snuck a sly glance in Anderson's direction, as though for approval before returning an undaunted stare to the Council, which put them both on edge and at ease. Stepping back, Udina gestured, urgently, for Shepard to move nearer. Truth be told, she hadn't expected such distinction from the Council, or for it to turn out the way it did, though not to say it wasn't nerve-racking. Becoming the first human Spectre of the galaxy. It was a loud statement that portrayed humanity's insistence on becoming one step closer to the seat on the Council. Shepard wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but it certainly fixed one thing. Now, they would be able to hunt for Saren with this newly acquired, respectable reputation. Grey, sober eyes looked on, relaying the experiences of a lifetime saturated in warfare and tragedy. Her eyes flickered to the hundreds of control panels, suspended overhead, posing as galactic broadcasts across the galaxy to presumably transmit the inauguration. Species far and wide beheld from the sidelines in adjacent buildings and balconies, with most incognisant of the events taking place earlier. They were witnessing history in the making.

Her personal sentiments aside, it marked a moment in humanity's timeline, the grand gesture, being endowed with such a reputable position within Council law, though never would she feel deserving of it. Plenty of soldiers, Shepard thought, were just as industrious and dedicated as herself. Perhaps a bit cold or distant, but who isn't in the industry? People always told her never to be so modest, but what price was sincerity that humankind could not accept? Did she really deserve the honour? Probably not, but would she use it to stop Saren and the geth? Unquestionably, so. The Councilors' speeches, while exceptionally individualistic, all shared the same format and struck no foreboding in the commander. To journey the galaxy in such a way presented the chance to better her lot in the societies of other species' cultures. It wasn't an excursion, however. Not with Saren, who was most likely revelling in the game of cat-and-mouse, who tangoed dangerously with gambles and pioneered ventures into little-known waters. The asari Councilor finished nonchalantly. "You are the first human Spectre, Commander Shepard. This is an honour and an exceptional achievement for you and your entire species."

"My flattery cannot be described in words, Councilor." It was true. If not for herself—then at least for humanity. Never would she have seen herself as a symbol for humankind, but if all went well, she could give them a bit of peace in knowing that steps had been taken for the achievement of such. "Any tip-offs to jump-start the pursuit? Going in blind wouldn't benefit anyone."

"Of course," said the salarian. "We'll forward any noteworthy files to Ambassador Udina. I'm sure a few leads have materialised in the past few weeks."

Giving the room a hasty once-over, the asari Councilor acknowledged the throngs of Citadel citizens and adjourned the meeting. The Council dispersed from sight and Shepard turned to meet the extended hand of Anderson. "Congratulations, Shepard. This is a giant leap for humanity—and who else more deserving of it than you?"

Shepard smiled softly. "Don't have to butter me up, Anderson. I'm sure there are a thousand-and-one soldiers entitled to the label. I just had good timing."

"Your modesty is unnerving, Shepard. This is a win for mankind! Don't enfeeble it, embrace it!" exclaimed Udina. "You're a Spectre now!"

After a thorough explanation of all the new toys she was to inherit (ranging from along the lines of a ship, crew, state of the art weaponry, and apparatus), Shepard was told to meet outside the Normandy to receive the full rundown on localities of where Saren and the geth might have been spotted. Seldom time was left to talk with Captain Anderson of the events prior, as the Ambassador made sure to prod him in whatever way he deemed obligatory to get his tasks—a good part trivial—done. Though her reaction, noticeably piqued, caught Anderson's eyes, his exchange of reassurance was trusted as Udina and himself departed, most likely to the Embassies. Shepard finally released a breath and turned to her squad…

"That went better than expected," said Garrus, crossing his arms over his chest. "Though I never realised our turian Councilor could be so stubborn."

"Have to revere him for sticking persistently to his opinions. Then again, so would I if I had two other supposed Councilors of good repute backing me up," replied Kaiden, leaning against the railing of the narrowed bridge surrounded by water.

"It's all about conformity, Kaiden. Unless a countercultural movement breaks out, we're on our own," joked Shepard. "And what exactly were you expecting, Garrus?"

Before Garrus could speak, Ashley's voice intervened. "You mean before or after Udina nearly cursed out the Council?

Her displeasure was blatant, but Shepard shrugged. "Get used to it, Williams. This is the real world. You never get gratitude, no matter the depths of the situation."

"You deserve at least a thank you from the Ambassador," replied Ashley, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

"Sure. Shepard didn't get a congratulatory kiss on the ass. What ever will she do?" Wrex said flatly, noticeably a bit more separated from the group and leaning against opposite railings.

Shepard chuckled, "Wrex is right. I'll sleep like a baby tonight, with or without the optional acknowledgment. Besides, can you blame him?"

In that second, Shepard's body iced over in a contemplative stupor, a state of near subtle unconsciousness, awareness, that was internal only to the mind and soul. She hadn't truly slept in years and spoke in convoluted falsehoods, sometimes to herself, if only to dodge the past and memories of events like Elysium or the Skyllian's Blitz. Gory imagery haunted and drowned and tortured—day in, day out!—of flying bodies, of deafening explosions, of screaming shrills. And in no way had that prided itself as the inception to a past so traumatising. Shepard hated that word, however. To have gone through trauma...exactly what had that been defined as, and by whom? When others used the word, she offered words of encouragement, felt empathetic, though disliked the idea of pity for souls formidable enough to keep on. When someone else used it, the word, to refer to her life, it felt comedically artificial. People liked to bring up the happenings on Akuze and Mindoir, without thinking better of their absentminded, insensitive remarks. She knew they didn't mean anything by it, but the memories stung all the same. Remembrances, new and old, expertly tore at her mind bit by bit, piece by piece, every time it was mentioned. She wanted to forget it entirely rather then allow it to weigh heavily in its present state; to gnaw away at the tenacious parts of her that remained, with and in its own cowardly thoughts. And now, to top it all off, frantic illusions of butchery tarnished an already damaged mind, no thanks to the Prothean beacon. Shepard pulled away quickly from the dreariness. "I haven't done anything except boil the Council's blood."

"At least you did it inadvertently," replied the quarian, trying to find optimism within the depression of the conversation.

"Promising stuff, Tali," said Garrus. "You always so full of hope or only on days where you get to see the Council squirm?"

Tali shrugged. "I'm predisposed to look on the bright side since a majority of us quarians utterly lack it. What with being a rejected species and all—"

"—there's a story! Tell me again why that happened? Think it had something to do with creating an _entire geth army_, right?" Ashley interjected bitterly. Jibes were easy to shrug off, but it kept Tali sore on a daily basis, typically whenever challenged about her species' past mistakes. Hoping the quarian wouldn't resort to shotgunning the fascist Alliance soldier in the face, Shepard wended her way past the squad. Everyone's gaze followed her.

"Let's save the hostility for the geth, all right? Williams?" said Shepard. "Walk drag."

It was obvious—Williams' dislike for most aliens—finding them to be a nuisance. Presumably because her grandfather served in the First Contact War. Despite this, Shepard wouldn't address it. Not because she didn't care, which she did great and plenty, but for the simple fact that an exceedingly large amount (and growing ever so larger) of events, ample and disagreeable in kind, had taken precedence over Ashley's quarrel in her inability to desist from victimising others. That didn't mean to say that those opinions, malignant as could be, would be tolerated, but Shepard could only wish for new ties of amity and companionship as days and nights wore on. "Whatever you say, Commander," muttered Ashley, lugging her way behind. Exiting to the Presidium, their departure had not at all been similar to how they had entered. Shepard's stride stiffened a multitudinous array of people, civilians and soldiers alike, whether in awe or fear. She wanted becoming a Spectre to make things less demanding, not more problematic. Would it become a setback, being the first human Spectre?

"Let's find Anderson, get our leads, and bolt from this station before they start wanting autographs."

"Can't take the newfound popularity, Shepard?" Garrus jested, walking adjacent of the commander.

"Popularity, I can take. Hell, I might even enjoy it a bit. But when I have to start outstaring civilians because of their lack for the understanding of the word privacy—well, it gets less enjoyable—"

"Who says you have to outstare 'em?" said the krogan battlemaster. "Show em' why humans really fear biotics. Give them a bit of the warp. That should teach them where to keep their eyeballs. Might even make them a better species because of it. Beating and a lesson all in one. Day well spent!"

"What?" Kaiden said, startled, unsure as to whether it was banter between squad-mates or seriousness on his part, albeit the krogan looked not the type to indulge in the former.

"Or you could take a saner route and just ignore them, Shepard," finished Tali.

Shepard whipped up a smirk. "I'm not a biotic by any means. And no, there shan't be any mistreatment toward nosy civilians. This means you, Wrex."

Wrex, brusque and impatient, shrugged it off. Shepard, on the other hand, beamed with a smile soft on her lips and so oddly out of place. Impossible was their task, to defeat the most powerful of turian Spectres, but the ride would not be a little jaunt planned suitably from start to finish. It would be unpredictable, as harsh and long and cruel as Shepard knew the universe as and all its worlds to be. That rung true largely in part to such the incompatible crew that would, in the future, be tamed to work together for better or for worse.

* * *

June 7th, 2813

24:45:33 [12:45AM]

The Present

It always rains. It is always dark.

Those were two things Shepard learned that night, near pregnant with limitless theories of the woman unnamed in arms. How everything had come to be was one of the more popular ones. Questions, that is. The rain had let up as of recent, with peaks in the distance shrouded in thick mist. Quiet introspection hit Shepard with might and main, without the inclination to want it so, but then to refrain from it was not an option. _Why the hell did Anderson send me here? _Exiting what felt like the burrow of infinite trees, Shepard felt solace upon reaching a vast sweeping territory of high ground. The Alliance craft was now in sight.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" murmured Shepard, washed in relief.

"Careful, Shepard," said another voice, recognisable in its gravelly tone. "I'd think you were coming on to me with wording like that…"

Her body tilted sideways to see Garrus emerge from a trail, not unlike her own. "And here I was thinking you were uneducated in the art of human idioms, Garrus.

He waved a hand in the air. "I'm not so dense that I can't understand a few human phrases—"

His eyes saw her first—the girl, by natural tendency—way well before his brain did. Meeting Shepard's eye level, one could see the unselfish motives behind the action itself, sustaining the weight of the lanky, muddied person. She hadn't seemed like the type of person to conduct herself in such a benign way for no apparent reason, however, Garrus hadn't known her long enough to be certain of that assessment. It was true that she helped the bulk of the industrial proletariat on the Citadel—all of whom pleaded for her aid and to which she gladly granted—solely off the basis of it being "the right thing to do." For a woman in her position, Shepard had several opportunities to shun citizens and society as a whole, to work at a faster speed, to anger the blaze of widespread publicity, but she wasn't an assembly-line automaton, not like so many others he knew in the line of prestige, however, blood soaked garments could not hide much of what was obvious to the naked eye, and while not entirely emaciated, the young woman in arms seemed to be unwell and gaunt. "This her?"

There wasn't much to look at, though that wasn't her fault as it was the muck, wasting away at the chalky cast of her skin where veins showed blue through it. "Affirmative."

"Looks a bit dodgy, Shepard," said Garrus. "What about the hired guns?"

"Mercs chased her pretty much through the whole damn jungle. Odd, though," Shepard mused. "They could have just gunned her down from a distance. They didn't...I wonder why."

"Slavers, maybe?" Garrus asked, following adjacent to Shepard as they started toward the ship. "They prefer to keep their victims conscious."

"Fits the part, but take a look at this." Shepard gestured to the girl's left forearm. "The latest omni-tool upgrades. The fact that she even _has_ an omni at all merits questions. Civilians shouldn't have access to that type of technology."

"And there's no way slavers would allow for it. Too risky if she were to get in touch with someone," answered Garrus. "Have you tried breaking into it? The amount of information an omni can hold is baffling."

"Nothing out of the ordinary. Almost _too_ clean actually," she sighed. "And those soldiers weren't just batarian either. They were human, too."

"Slavers are out of the question then. We all know the majority are batarians. Human involvement is damn near _senseless_," Garrus revealed. "You don't think it has something to do with…"

He didn't finish, but Shepard knew well what he meant.

"Couldn't say for sure. But one thing I _do_ know," Shepard replied, "this wasn't a coincidence. Probably a _PMC_ group—along with whoever's left of those poor dead bastards you found out there."

"Private Military Company—that means they were hired by someone. _Saren_?"

"If they _were_ hired by Saren, what the hell happened?" claimed Shepard, her eyes falling onto the girl. "Impressive she made it as far as she did, though."

"Well, _sure_. Looking at her condition, it's pretty damn unfortunate," Garrus stated, tightening his mandibles. "But you're not simple minded, Shepard. Definitely not stupid, either."

The lull that emerged felt heavily tricky, for Shepard was never one to delay or express harbour toward her own thoughts. "It's possible…she could be the enemy."

Shepard's lengthy pause prompted Garrus to speak. "_But_?"

"—_but_ I see no grounds for that apart from a few bloody duds. Call me old-fashioned, but I still believe in the whole_ innocent until proven guilty_ thing. Hell, she looks shy of eighteen-years-old, Garrus."

"Age doesn't really play a factor in our culture. Then again, turians aren't used to your justice system."

"Good, it's mostly flawed," Shepard replied. "I doubt she killed those men, and if I'm wrong, then_ at least _not by herself."

"But if she _did_, well—that doesn't exactly make her our enemy, does it?"

Shepard halted in her tracks. "You like to reinforce that statement?"

"All I'm saying is this—interspecies mercs don't work together. Krogan don't work for batarians or humans and vice-versa. We're missing the bigger picture entirely, Commander. What with the extra freelancers you killed, what were they all _doing_ there in the first place?" He was eager to prove his point. "If they _were_ mowed down to pieces, is that necessarily such a _bad_ thing? Best case scenario, they were our enemies. If they hadn't been killed today, just think. Two years from now, half of these mercs would've been caught in our crossfires and killed in any one of our firefights."

Shepard understood his angle, but wasn't convinced. "Right now this girl is alive in _my_ arms. Her life is in _my_ hands, and if she's an innocent," Shepard said, "I'm not wagering that life on comments starting with _if_ or _maybe_."

"Well, _if_ not that, what about the geth we saw on the way in?" said Garrus, following Shepard into the Normandy's portal.

_Geth_, Shepard thought. _Forgot about that. _"We'll find out more once Chakwas gets a hold of her."

Not a word was spoken; no rejoin, no response. Waiting idly, Garrus was unable to tear his eyes away from the woman, arms limply clasped around Shepard's neck where the soil rubbed off, and head tucked beneath the chin. When the VI cleared them to enter the cockpit, Joker and Tali, unapologetically loud, could be heard debating in the helm. The argument in question proved to be a trivial war of words compared to Shepard's predicament. Once onboard, Shepard overheard Joker's voice who, albeit not looking in her direction, caught her entrance and flagrantly called out. "Shepard, settle something for me, will you? Tali says quarians where environmental suits because their immune systems are made out of, what? _Jelly_? But isn't it _just_ as obvious that they're self-conscious bodily wise? What're you _hiding_ under there, Tali? Fleshless body parts? Commander? _Hey, are you listening?_"

Joker snuck a look past the quarian, but met the unsettling, dramatic scene. Tali, with a questioning tilt, followed the unabashedly crude gawk of the helmsman before her breath drew in quick. "_Keelah_! Shepard, who is that?" Tali remained openly ignored by Shepard, striding past with Garrus hard on her heels.

"No time to explain, Tali. I'll fill you in once I get the chance," Shepard announced midway, scurrying past crew-members with awed expressions as equally indistinguishable.

Joker wrinkled his nose and turned upward to face Tali. "That must be our inaptly named guest."

* * *

With Garrus' help, the stranger, ostensibly mistreated, was carted down the stairwell, all the while earning open-mouthed stares from the ship's complement. "What do you need me to do?" He remained by side of Shepard, who saw the medical bay from a short distance. "Whoever this is and whoever she may be, I'm not taking any chances. No one gets special treatment based on our personal judgement. For the safety of this crew, understood?"

"I'm surprised you're putting me up for the job."

"Williams would throw a fit and Alenko would become too social. I need someone unattached. Ipso facto, _you_."

"I'll just take that as a compliment."

"Monitor her as best you can. Doesn't have to be inside the med bay, just stay in the vicinity. If she turns out to be a dangerous psychotic, we'll incapacitate and question her. See if she knows anything about Saren—"

"—and if she's not what you call a _dangerous psychotic_?"

Shepard shrugged. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

In hadn't been long before Dr. Chakwas was spotted in her stride of discomposed edge outside the med bay doors, not by dint of the danger, but more so the thrill that accompanied it. The urgency of the situation had galvanised her into immediate action, and not surprisingly so. Exclamations of the noisy sort, in their unbroken stream of continuation, spasmodic in their intakes, inevitably notified Chakwas, and lifting her eyes, she caught sight of Commander Shepard flying down the hall, body seized in arms. "_Good heavens,_ Shepard. Is this her?" Chakwas was unblinking at the extent of the damage, predictably mild in manner. Perhaps having seen so much bloodshed and death on Alliance fleets had made her this way.

Shepard's curt nod acted as confirmation to Chakwas' fears, who gestured to the med bay. "Get her inside. I've everything ready, but those injuries look worse than expected. How long has she been out?"

"Little over half an hour. Found her in this state. Not sure what happened prior, but it's safe to say it wasn't beneficial to her health."

Shepard was swift and meticulous in placing Calliope on one of the many slabs, scanning the inert body on the table with tranquil concern. If awake, one might have found the whole thing suggestive of either a very cold reception or circumspect custody, neither of which seemed attractive in Shepard's eyes. As expected, Chakwas assembled a strew of constituent medical gadgets, presumably gauzes and bandages, and hovered over the bed in a painstakingly rushed manner. Spurting a jet of fluid from a syringe, Chakwas administered it, though realised Garrus and Shepard stood next to her, a somewhat small nuisance for the doctor.

"It'd be best for all of us, Commander, if I had some leeway. Not to cause offence," she expressed, glancing in an appropriately professional way. After a few blinks, Shepard shifted positions, nodded, and exited, with Garrus tagging along. Outside the medical bay, Shepard leaned against the wall alongside the main door, where queer thoughts of a deep nature beset her mind, mostly of their discoveries.

Garrus peered interestingly at her. "Now what?"

"Now…we wait," she said. "Write some reports if I'm in the mood."

"Will you talk to the Council about this?"

"Not until she's awake—I've a feeling this is gonna' get a lot bigger than I'd like it to. I want all the facts before throwing myself at the Council's sword of scrutiny," Shepard stated. "Same with a crew meeting. I'll quell the gossip as much as I can, but there's no denying they know of her existence on this ship."

Garrus detected his boss' tension. "Something bothering you, Commander?"

"I could have done more. I shouldn't have killed them, I should've interrogated them. Snuffing their lives out was the wrong COA," she groaned, gesturing aloft to the door. "They wanted that girl _alive_—for a reason unknown to us."

"Don't get too worked up. It could be worse. She could be dead."

Shepard raised an eyebrow at his attempt of consolation. "If she isn't comatose already."

"The doctor will have her hands full. No denying that."

Shepard made a sound of approval. "Chakwas is one of the Alliance's best. She'll be remedied in no time."

A semi-strained absence of sound arose in a form that Shepard both desired and despised before silvery eyes slitted in startling awareness. Lieutenant Kaiden Alenko, whose life she had gambled by leaving him on his own, hadn't returned. Hoping to establish a direct link to Kaiden via comms, Shepard found the will to pick herself off the wall, and Garrus, with a mind unlike most, read his commander's face easily. "I'll keep tabs on our foreigner. Contact Kaidan. There's a good chance he's come across a thing or two to tell us what the hell happened out there."

She nodded, dawdling across the floor to the stairwell as apprehension contorted in the pit of her stomach. At the first step, Shepard lingered, perhaps to delay the inescapable, however, curious. For the stretch of time her brows tightened as she looked at the med bay doors. Was it too much to wish this girl free from blame or above suspicion? It would have made things easier, trouble-free, really. Maybe she would be disgustingly optimistic about life, or wide-eyed and bushy-tailed? Maybe she was cold and calculating, or content and at peace with the world? Shepard found herself creating an entire persona, a brash facade to an otherwise unknown stranger, nonetheless, she did this more for herself, as a means to vent her anger. She had gone out of her way, which was no surprising feat, to rescue a presumably foolish woman—a girl, a _child_!—someone who most likely deserved every scar, every wound they got.

Then again…maybe not.

That, in and of itself, was the justification behind the falsehoods that Shepard created in her mind. For once, she wanted things to go her way. _But I can't predict how the world will work. And I shouldn't even waste my breath trying. _She was quick to forget about the whole thing and opted to centre all thoughts and theories on the more favorables of a temperament in contrast to its negatives. Shepard was always so pessimistic. That needed to change. Especially if she were to finish this mission. After a span of time, she climbed the staircase and touched a hand to her ear, seemingly to get a hold of the lieutenant, Kaidan Alenko, through comms.

* * *

June 6th, 2183

17:45:43 [5:45PM]

The Past

Milky Way / Serpent Nebula / Widow / Citadel

Citadel Dock

The Citadel was too damn big for its own good. Or rather it accommodated too many people, and those people were the _neediest sons of bitches_ Shepard had ever encountered. Once a Spectre, it seemed those too lethargic to do their own work would bravely confront and give her the task to do it for them. Of course, most of the time she would oblige. She hated letting people down, especially civilians. Nevertheless, Shepard had assisted so many people she wasn't sure how much time had elapsed on the Citadel. From helping the asari consort and scanning keepers, to convincing C-Sec officers that preaching hanars had the right to freedom of speech and expression—a reminiscent of humanity's own U.S. Constitution.

"How're those headaches holding up?" asked Ashley, standing idly in the elevator adjacent to Kaiden, who'd been stretching his fingers out in vertical movements. Hand exercises.

Shepard and company had decided to head back to the Normandy after a slew of tiring assignments. Anderson and Udina were supposed to be waiting for them outside the airlock, intent on presenting them with several leads to get started in their deadly game of cat-and-mouse. "Better. None worth mentioning lately. I guess I just have a will to stay strong and durable even through a migraine or two," answered Kaiden, attempting to face her in the congested elevator. The platform was overflowing, what with six bodies on it, including one who weighed the equivalent of a rhinoceros.

"How can the two of you talk to each other in this damned lack of space? My air supply is getting cut off," Garrus groused. He leaned against the wall closest to the doors. "Not to mention I could probably get from Earth to Palaven faster in a flying Mako than I could waiting for this elevator to stop. Always hated the Citadel for this—"

"—I second that," said Tali, squished in the corner.

"Better that then silence! Anyway," Ashley resumed, "I'd say you just have a good stress reliever. I know that knocking the geth on their synthetic asses gets rid of my headaches!"

"Funny how you only seem to make mine worse," murmured Wrex, low enough for only Shepard and Garrus to hear. The latter bit back his laughter, finding the statement quite pardonable in Ashley's case. The urge to suppress the conflict, if it could even be called as such, was much easier than initially envisioned. It was a jocular diversion, the thoughts and overt expressions of her crew mates, but highly unhealthy for relationships. Shepard could see the waving finger of Udina condemning her for such odd showmanship, but then again, it brought about such a rich, natural entertainment. And Garrus _had_ made some pretty tolerable points. It wasn't just elevator rides that could be long and tedious. If Shepard's figures proved to be accurate, the trip was bound to be at least a month or two long, tops—a bit of a repartee amidst potential cohorts wouldn't hurt. The same couldn't be said, however, for the future, and _especially_ for the battlefield.

The elevator opened forthwith and, predictably, Garrus was the first to march outward with elongated arms. "Freedom," he intoned, "I won't take you for granted ever again."

Shepard ignored the scene and spotted Ambassador Udina from a distance, standing next to the Normandy's airlock. Distracted by his omni-tool research, Shepard's intrusion was necessary. "Udina. Council said you have suggestions on where to head to first. Care to put flesh on the bones of that?"

"More important news, Shepard!" Udina cut off, raising his hand. "Captain Anderson is stepping down as commanding officer of the SSV Normandy. It's been passed on to you!"

_Anderson? —wait, what? _"Sorry, I hallucinated. You want to run that by me one more time?" Udina assumed the woman's utterance to be a joke, but her stern face failed to budge an inch. "Where's the Captain?"

Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Udina gestured his head behind himself, where Shepard's eyes fell upon the captain, hunched and striding back and forth, supposedly deep in what was an important comm call. Narrowed grey eyes acquired a more desirable stare, fazed, watching the lips of his mouth move at fervent speeds, his eyes folded at the end. Creases around his saturnine face crinkled, revealing melancholy to just about anyone who squinted long and hard enough. His unease was as plain as the nose on his face, and one didn't have to be knowledgable or observant to notice. With his back turned from the squad, Anderson moved farther from the loading dock opposite of their position, unknown of their being there at all, though intrigue stirred inside of Shepard, all but prepared to skyrocket through her lungs in the embodiment of pure and unadulterated confusion. "Anderson's preoccupied," was the simple answer from Udina.

"How long has he been?"

"Half an hour at least," he replied. "Shepard, did you hear a word of what I said? You've been granted complete access to the Normandy. Captain Anderson is no longer commanding officer!"

"I heard what you said," Shepard hissed. "What did you have to do to give me this ship, Ambassador? Force him into retirement?"

Udina was surprised by Shepard's ire. "Take your ease, soldier. Nothing so dramatic as such. Anderson offered, knowing full well this was the only Alliance fleet advanced enough to breach Terminus space without starting a full-fledged war. You understand, surely?"

Shepard snarled midway, but Udina casually resumed. "He has done his job. He's had a prestigious career. Now he'll be known as the soldier willing to give up his line of duty for the sake of the galaxy!"

"You better hope to God this is a seriously untimely joke, Udina—"

"—don't go laying into yourself, Shepard. It makes sense." The voice was a comforting one, full-bodied and clear and filled to the brim with a type of ease she knew well. "She's the quintessential ship for a Spectre like yourself. Silent, swift, and easy on the eyes. You'll take good care of her."

Having caught her unawares was an astonishing feat to which not any normal being could pull off _except_ for the furtive Captain Anderson. Unlike his usual persona, however, he acted unconventional, sidetracked perhaps by what Shepard presumed to be the entire mess of a situation. Her assumptions, then, veered instinctively to his earlier show of disquiet—in the personal call of his. It wasn't any of her business and yet she wanted to make it so. "Was everything all right back there? You seemed agitated."

"Just a comm call, nothing important…"

Shepard, not easily swayed, concealed her scepticism. He seemed to take on an evasive action at her inquiry, as if it were pointed in some form or another. His words could be trusted, if more than by the sound of his scarily persuasive voice, but his eyes made public the flinching of angst that, deadly as it could, clung to his falsity, one that he tried so hard to disguise. Decades of working barefaced, breathing down dust, taking up orders…no, in this moment, he was different. "You're handling this well, Captain. Much better than I would, but I'm not convinced. The whole thing stinks, whether or not the reports say you volunteered. This treatment shouldn't be warranted on any level. If anyone merits the beauty of this ship—it's you. Not me."

"Tickled pink, really, Shepard, but it's better this way."

"Really? Better for you? Or the politicians? The truth, Captain. That's all I ask for."

"You needed a ship? Spectres answer to no one but the Council? I needed to step down? I could give you a million-and-one reasons, Shepard. Though…" His list of reasons, justifying the decisions made, seemed almost exceptionally weak and inadequate. "Look, I was in your shoes once—twenty years ago. They had considered me for the Spectres, too."

Shepard's disbelief was cloaked from years of practice, but she heard Udina's snort, induced by annoyance. _Harkin was telling the truth? _"I—Harkin mentioned something about that earlier, but I didn't believe him. I had a right to know, sir."

"It's not something I enjoy sharing, Shepard. Especially since I made a muck of it. What am I to say, really?" He rubbed the nape of his neck, avoiding Udina's glare. "I bungled my chances and that was that for that. Not one of my most proudest days, mind you. All you need to know is that me and—"

He stopped himself without any warning and prompted Shepard to tip her head. Seconds passed and his voice, now stifled and low, wavered amidst words. "All there is to know is that _I_—_I_ was sent on a mission with Saren once and he made sure the Council rejected me. My time came and went. Now it's up to you to make amends for my—well, let's just call it—unforgivable gaffes." The recital of his past misadventure demonstrated curiosity in an otherwise neutrally default Shepard, but she took the hint quite clearly. This wasn't a chronicle he wished to overtly discuss in full view of the ambassador, and one could hardly be held liable for such a rationale, for Udina was not the number one leading man in terms of being most sincerest politician.

"Understood, sir."

"Now, about the objectives," Anderson changed the subject. "Saren's gone, that much is painfully evident. Whatever traces we have are mere sightings of a turian that may or may not be him—"

"—we've come to terms with the fact that eye-witness reports aren't the most reliable," said Udina. "Especially when the witnesses are humans who can't tell the difference between a quarian and a volus."

The discussion, much to Shepard's concern, brought about the mentally stultifying effects of a disadvantageous routine. Captain Anderson had gone on to say that, irrefutably, the information was not dependable. This was especially true if faulty, however, what Saren was after seemed the most important object in view: the Conduit, seen as motivation for why scads of geth scoured the Traverse for Saren, scanning space while all the same attempting to remain hidden, to not give away intimation that there had been evidence of their existence at all. "They're obviously smart," inserted Kaiden. Besides Tali and Wrex, who returned to the Normandy upon arrival, the rest elected to stick around for the ensuing conversation. Udina carried the formal colloquy along, basking in the odd glory of throwing light on the locales that were to be worked off of. Unravelling the plans in his own twisted technique, two planets, in extreme specificity, found themselves involved—Noveria and Feros. The latter, Udina explained, was one of an increasingly strong geth activity shortly after the colony lost all communications. Noveria, on the other hand, had its own fill of geth tumult as well, though contact hadn't been sabotaged as the latter.

"Feros and Noveria will be key to finding out where the Conduit is," Anderson added.

"What about the Reapers?" Garrus commented. "From what Shepard believes, aren't they the real threat? Shouldn't we focus on learning more about them?"

"Garrus is right, but we can't waste time on it. Not while places like Feros are suffering," Shepard supported, believing the Reapers to be the enemy in her vision.

"You're still going on about that? Shepard, really, I'm in accordance with the Council on this one. Do they even exist? It seems more apt to be in some warped fairytale!" mocked Udina.

"What fairytales do you know of that have insentient killing machines exterminating the entire galaxy, Ambassador? Because that's just wrong on so many levels." Annoyance was manifest in Kaiden's voice, his interjection. As luck would have it, Anderson backed the team's claim and, in his attempts to quell Udina and his surging anger, translated simply that they couldn't discredit the threat of the Reapers if they did, indeed, exist. However, the Conduit would become indispensable for bringing it all to full circle. If they stopped Saren from finding the Conduit, they stopped the Reapers—direct domino effect.

"I'll get the job done then," said Shepard.

Elaborating on the final lead, Udina proceeded to broach the subject of Matriarch Benezia, the asari that accompanied Saren on the recording. It soon became apparent thanks to Udina that she had a daughter. "Prothean scientist, actually. Specialises with the Protheans and their extinction fifty-thousand years ago." Whether or not this Prothean scientist was embroiled in the clutter of it all, Shepard was apt toward staying on the safe side. The could act as a boon that far outweighed the drawbacks if she were willing to cooperate with Shepard and her team, willing to put a stop to Benezia. Then again, it presented the many, many difficulties of the personal and complex relationship amidst a mother, daughter duo. If all went well and as planned—which it hardly ever did in Shepard's case—it wouldn't make too much of a mess of things. "She might even be the enemy!" broke Ashley. "If so, we'll get lucky and tear her down beyond a shadow of a doubt."

Shepard ignored her comrade's outburst of remarks as Udina continued. "Her name is Dr. Liara T'Soni."

"_Liara_…" The syllables of the name rolled off her tongue in the most unconventional of ways. "Last whereabouts?"

"Studying an archaeological dig site on one of the untrodden worlds in the Artemis Tau cluster. Like I said, it might be good to meet up and familiarise yourself with her."

Shepard disagreed. "I'd be best to start with Feros. Colonists there could still be alive, though having lost contact with them sounds troubling enough as it is."

"You don't answer to anyone but yourself, Commander," inserted Anderson. "It's based entirely off your decisions. That's what being a Spectre is all about."

"But don't get _too_ crazy, Shepard," warned Udina. "Don't forget that you still personify everything that humanity is—and _wants_ to be. Make a hash out of things and it'll be my ass cleaning it up. Hopefully, it won't come to that?"

"If it does, you'll be the first to know, won't you?" An underlying hint of mockery was blatant in her tone.

"Hmph. Glad to see we're at an understanding," he mumbled. "Just remember, you were a human long before you were a Spectre."

_What the hell does that mean,_ thought Shepard. _Of course I'm human, what else would I be? A fish? _

Udina concluded shortly thereafter, claiming he had a meeting to sit on. He directed all of Shepard's queries over to Anderson by that point. "God willing, you won't have any. Good day, Shepard."

Ambassador Udina withdrew himself from the scene, exiting via the elevators, and Shepard pursed her lips, uncharacteristically glad to see him off. "That man makes me want to shoot something cute and cuddly in the face."

"You and me both, Commander."

Silence.

"This all feels so strange."

As a soldier, so careworn and haggard from his years of service, his face was predictably resigned, not unlike her own in that instant. It was effortless and all but natural to pity his appearance, but she knew Anderson faced plenty of quandaries, deliberately having been set there in order for this absurd scheme, so complicated in its condition, to run as smooth as possible. "You're the Commander of the Normandy. You're more than qualified for the title and the job than I ever was at your age…"

"So, what's the deal?" she said, more casual than before. "Everything that's happening. How are you coping?"

"You want the legitimate answer? This isn't how I pictured the end of my career, but we all gotta' go sometime," Anderson replied, rubbing the palm of his hand. "Pushing papers is exactly how I imagined it would be. Tedious and unfulfilling."

"Paperwork is like that. It's for those who don't know how to apply themselves to outside circumstances. People like you and me, we're not cut out for it. Personally, I'd go mad."

"This isn't about how I'm feeling, Shepard. Life is either short or long. With Saren in existence, you can damn well bet the latter won't be an alternative, but I have every confidence in your abilities to bring that son-of-a-bitch down. If that means I have to step out of the way, I'll gladly do it. Hell, I'd even hack off a limb…"

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Captain," quipped Shepard before a silence descended over them, both unsure of what to say next before Garrus, abreast of Shepard, stepped forward uncomfortably.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir—you and Saren? You mentioned something earlier—twenty years ago?"

"Garrus Vakarian, right?" he asked curiously. "C-Sec officer?"

"_Former_…C-Sec officer."

"I see," he murmured. "Well, with Udina out of the picture I suppose there's no harm in sharing details…" And details he shared, extensively, thoroughly, to the best of his abilities. While those events, recalled as though the clearest of days tormented him, he knew he had to recount the narrative. "Back then, Ambassador Goyle was our spokeswoman on the Citadel. Just like Udina, she wanted a human working for the Spectres. She had…well, chosen me…as a _secondary_ choice…"

"_Secondary_?" repeated Ashley, chomping at the bit to join the conversation.

"There was another person she had chosen, but—but—" Once again, Anderson shifted into another foreign pause, which was odd for he never delayed his words with such faltered confidence. Shepard deduced the options and concerns that might have been the basis for such, but within the tangles of misshapen memories floating about, Anderson could have incidentally mingled or repressed them for the greater chance of forgetting them, though with great effort and woe. Or perhaps he was trying to not say something that he couldn't—or shouldn't. "No, that doesn't matter..."

Shepard became more and more eager, hoping to know the true reasons behind the blunt gaps of his words. "The first they had considered rejected the offer and instead suggested me. That's how I was chosen to be apprised for the Spectres—"

Now, Shepard couldn't help but wonder whom had originally been considered for the Spectres, and how she hadn't heard of it beforehand. Needless to say, Anderson remained tight-lipped, unmethodical, and messy about the whole damn thing, which was certainly not his style. He was quick to move away from that subject altogether, however, perhaps as he had intended to, in hopes of clarifying additional content he reckoned needed it. As his address persisted, she learned more: he had been sent on a mission with Saren, if only for their best turian agent to keeps tabs on Anderson for his appraisal of the job, to keep up with his dispatch; the very same Nihlus had done with Shepard on Eden. But the captain had fallen short of everyone's expectations—Saren made sure of that. The elucidation, full and exhaustive in its tale of the events twenty years prior, was a story she detested involving the accidental destruction of an element zero refinery that Saren blamed on Anderson. Her lips contorted into an unsightly kind of grimace, the kind she hated herself for, as to think Anderson's chances as Spectre were sabotaged by Saren and that the Council would believe such garbage was baffling. It had the likeness of a well-apt lie impelled down the public's throat. Shepard gave her two cents on the subject, best as she could, and then proceeded to command the bulk of her crew to return to the Normandy so as to speak to her captain confidentially. Her tonality was formal, but the meaning was comradely enough to send Kaiden, Garrus, and Ashley on their way, scuttled one by one into the airlock before receding from view.

Amused, Anderson chuckled, "Didn't you see you as the tyrannical type, Commander."

"I mean well and they know it. I'm just under a hell of a lot of stress. What with rogue Spectres tearing up the galaxy, I have my hands full," Shepard sighed. "Don't beat yourself up over Saren. Karma always comes back around to kick the asses of those it might have missed along the way."

"Thanks, Shepard, but I know I'm not to blame for this. Saren wanted things to turn out the way they did. He wanted that refinery blown up. And she and I both knew it too…"

"_She_?"

Anderson groaned, alarmingly, not even attempting to cloud the fact that it happened, and—all the same—skilfully dodging the inquiry through spluttering excuses. "I, I mean—maybe Saren just likes the violence?" His adjustment on the subject was fearfully quick and unmistakable in its presence, but Shepard found it best not to kick up a fuss over secrets he may have kept. Everyone had secrets. Anderson had already been deprived of a thirty-plus year career in the Alliance military, and what with the loss of integrity—morality, decency—there was no point in imposing on times dead and buried.

The exchange, cordial as could be, strengthened both their resolves, and Shepard exhaled, leaning against the railing. "Gotta' love how everything is based off this little thing called hope. Lot of lives are riding on it."

"Without it, the galaxy is already doomed."

"Damn, and here I was hoping for some shore leave, too."

"Respite is nothing but a pipe dream for us soldiers, Shepard," he said. Then, "I'll assume you'll want to know Noveria and Feros' statuses?"

"Wouldn't mind it. Heard Noveria was a bit of trouble, though. Basically your go-to planet to orchestrate illicit research—democratically, so to speak."

"It's a bit touch-and-go. Spectres are about the only form of Citadel government they're heedful of out there, but they aren't sought after," he said. "And not everyone saw your broadcasted inauguration."

"I wish someone had told me they'd simulcasted it beforehand. I might have had second thoughts."

"You're camera shy, Shepard? I figured nothing could strike terror in you."

"Not scared. Just a bit uncomfortable. All those lights and the feeling of a billion eyes watching your every movement can make any sane person go to pieces."

"Pure fiction, Shepard. There's no way," he bantered.

Shepard managed to crack a twinkling smile, mostly in reciprocation to Anderson's. His pretence of being unconcerned, with his waggish ripostes, desperately searched for a degree of verisimilitude and realism in what could have been lies or deception. The truth of the matter was, David Anderson was all but a man, and even his character flaws could betray what he really felt, outwardly, inwardly, and everywhere else in between. Shepard admired him as many things—a soldier, a legend. This was a fate deemed worse than death, this alleged, absurd notion of "retirement," and such was singularly true for an Alliance serviceman whom dedicated his life to his home world for years.

"I'd better get back. Joker's gonna' have a field day when I give him the word," replied Shepard, turning away toward the Normandy's airlock. Before she had the chance, Anderson called to her one final time.

"Shepard, before you go, there's one last thing."

"Sir?"

His carriage had become unusually and abruptly stiff, taking an ungainly step in her direction. "You know of the Nubian Expanse, yes?"

"Know about, sure. Never been that way. Never needed to."

"It must have fled my mind for the moment, but there's been some publicised geth activity there as well—"

"The Nubian Expanse? Why're you telling me this now? Why not earlier?"

"Like I said, I…must have forgotten…" His ambivalence and starchy demeanour threw Shepard off. "I've a slew of trouble on my mind, so forgive the eroding memory of an old man. Do you know of Pragia?"

"_Pragia_?"

"Jungle-planet, mostly. It can't be confirmed, but…we've heard whispers of Saren sightings. That includes geth," explained Anderson. "I'd recommend going there first. Preferably, now. _Before_ Feros."

"That's a bit early, sir. The crew has barely adjusted to what's happening. They'll need a few weeks to prepare before I start jumping into planets—"

"Trust me when I say it won't take long, Shepard. Just drop by. It's not as time-consuming as the others—"

"If not time-consuming, then why head there so soon?"

"—_just do it!_"

At that, his eyes broadened, if only at the tone of his thundering voice, astounded by his reaction as opposed to Shepard herself, whom kept her placid nature, despite true and shocked emotions. "Sir, is this…information bona fide?" Her peer signified a lack of trust on her part, which wasn't a particular action to do in front of superiors.

Anderson squinted, returning his composure. "Why wouldn't it be?" He was cool and collected, but one could tell Shepard's comment shook him. "Pragia should be your first and foremost priority. The information came from a reliable source, don't worry."

"But it came from the Council after that, correct?" Shepard caught the dramatic shift of his eyes. It was unfitting to his calm.

"Yes," he said. "There should be a strong distress beacon. Initiated two days ago galactic time. You could easily intercept it, but what you'll find there? I can't say…"

Shepard nodded. "I'll make sure to set a course for Pragia, then. If I find anything, I'll have a report readily available."

"Promise me."

To have gone rigid would've made more sense and been more appropriate for it would have been much less noticeable than the ostentatious double glance Shepard gave. His demand, crisp and to the point, was such a unlikely request from a man of his stature. Anderson wasn't the type to ask for assured oaths, especially regarding appeals for aid involving worlds she had never even been to. "I can't make any promises, Captain, but I'll do what I can. That's about as good as any…" To Shepard, the idea of a promise seemed downright silly, and for the captain to have demanded it from her, plainly and distinct, stirred inane interest. It was just another word for false hope. And false hope, be it unreliable expectancies, supplied the kind of unsettlement that bode many detriments in several, unassuming forms. It had no place in Shepard's bag of tricks. She was adamant on always being sincere to the highest degree. If there was ever a chance that a promise could be shattered by influencing factors, whether personal or professional, then there was simply no use for them. No one could possibly fathom the outcomes that awaited in the future, and thus she avoided them like the plague. However, she was as good as her word and principled in any undertakings that may have lacked the amount of pressure a promise proposed. A favour, she could pull off. A promise? That was placing a grave burden on her, one she would never be able to perfect. The inability to do just that would have driven her to her death years ago.

"I am extremely appreciative of this, Shepard. Thank you…" His voice softened to a murmur and Shepard nodded, eyes squinted, hesitant about departing before turning to the open airlock of the SSV Normandy, all the while dwelling on the captain's behaviour, so bizarre in those final moments.

"Pragia," she said, ignoring the Normandy's VI reaffirm her presence. "What's so important about Pragia?" Unlike the bulk of tasks, this seemed slightly more tantamount to a manoeuvre of confidential means as opposed to the generality of others, but he ensured that it had come straight from Udina's files, which had presumably come from the Council themselves. Why wouldn't it have been valid? Once inside the Normandy, Shepard looked around, her eyes falling upon commonplace faces, spent and jaded for the most part. Small talk was never her style—and not like she had one. The time, of course, didn't plead for it, however, frequent heart-to-hearts were a bit different; getting relationships out in the open, learning people's fortitude and vulnerabilities, discovering the in's-and-out's of trifling Alliance gossip. All in all she knew it would culminate in a more preferable surrounding, familiarising with the crew on a more intimate level, something she often didn't do. And while her prestige regarded her as a charismatic and honourable and moral woman, she knew being liked was not the priority, but to lead. For the time being, all Shepard could do was follow through with the inaptly-deemed favour to which she made to Anderson. It was of great importance, the mission, but for what purpose it existed? She had no clue. At the cockpit, Shepard turned to Joker. He was leaning against the chair sluggishly, hat tipped over his eyes in sound slumber. She pondered how one could sleep to the sounds of whirring engines day in, day out, especially in the helm of all places where it was most prominent.

"Joker?" Her volume was in the midst between loud and soft and the pilot roused himself on cue, his hat falling clumsily into his lap.

"Yes, sir? I mean, ma'am? I mean—ah, whatever—" Rubbing his eyes, he reclined against the console of knobs and assumed his position. "What can the disabled guy do you for, Commander?"

"Set a course for the Nubian Expanse. Pragia."

"Pragia? I don't have those navpoints in my omni. We improvising?"

"You'll have it within the hour, courtesy of Anderson. I just want to get off the ground already," she said. "I'll make an announcement on the game plan inflight, but I'm not big on grand talks of optimism. That was always the Captain's territory…"

Joker nodded, making the necessary preparations to take off from the Citadel docking zone as deduced by the many holographic images that surfaced in front of them. Resting a hand on Joker's chair, Shepard made sure all was orderly. The Normandy had become a cacophony of deafening alarm bells, waking itself up to soar the blackness of space as it was meant to. The noise changed considerably—from loud to soft—where it began to purr, subdued and hushed, similar to the sound of waves. It was like that of a song, so harmonious that Shepard memorised each low hum by repetition. It was an indication, all of it, that the Normandy was ready to break free from the restraints that harboured her.

Pragia, Feros, Noveria. Planets swarmed over the universe in their multitude, launched into the stratospheres of the many and the few—so much to do, so little time. Her initial thoughts lingered on how inconceivable it was. If challenged years earlier to their chances of success—of stopping the disorderly doings of a turian Spectre—she would have flat out exclaimed it impractical and futile to try. Things were different, now. Everything changed, and with it, so did she. Shepard massaged her temple, hunched over Joker's shoulder. "Show me the universe, Joker."

* * *

A/N: Hey, guys! So, it's a pretty long chapter—once again. Many sections went from flashbacks to present time (I was going to put the former in italics, but I just wasn't feeling it) as seen from the time/date reminders I set at the beginning of each portion. I'm not sure if this will continue or if it will be done in a different type of format, so I would love to hear some opinions from readers.

And yes, Captain Anderson is hiding something very important from the Commander that foreshadows future events, but as to what that is won't be known/identified until much later on. Because I'm mean.

This chapter was more about past occurrences than anything and was centred more on Shepard's perspective. Others characters will be given the same treatment as time slips on, but I cannot pinpoint when/where that will be.

I admit that this chapter comes off as a rather slow build, but it also fleshes out much of the future chapters before things really start to take off.

If it hadn't been made clear before, Commander Shepard is a mixture of Paragon and Renegade attributes/events. She is more Paragon than Renegade, but the incidents involving both reputations reflect upon Shepard's life. For instance, I wanted Shepard to have both the War Hero profile with involvement in the Skyllian Blitz, as well as Sole Survivor, meaning she was also involved in what happened on Akuze. Shepard will also be a Colonist in this story, meaning she was born and raised in Mindoir. Shepard is not a biotic either—instead she is a full fledged solider. I like this because it makes her seem very normal, while at the same time, embracing just how exceptional she is without the abilities biotics possess; that people can hero worship other skills—like her charm, her field experience, and her will and determination.

Some descriptions of locales came from the Mass Effect Wikipedia page.

One line partially used from Firefly.

I would love a review, if possible! Thanks!


	4. Awakening

"_Some people wake up drowsy. Some people wake up energised. I wake up dead."_

— _John Marsden_

* * *

June 7th, 2183

16:00:33 [6:00PM]

The Present

Horse Head Nebula / Fortuna System

SSV Normandy

18 Hours Later

Garrus wasn't sure how much time crept past since he first arrived. Minutes seemed too little. Hours seemed too long. Loitering about outside the med bay, he stood tolerant, but never could he have imagined the third degree to be so intrusive. Performed shamelessly by crew members, it protracted time agonisingly—torture, even, pins and needles—the lot of them. There was certainly no lack of impertinent investigation or spying on their part. Even Ashley dropped by, if just to know what all the buzz was about. That particular exchange seemed more symbolic of a parley, a conference between opposing sides in a dispute, as almost everyone knew Ashley disliked aliens, however, she was given the brush off like everyone else. Garrus replied that Shepard was simply too engrossed elsewhere in business and had not the time to indulge the crew's questionable curiosity. That it was best to leave things as was until it could be settled accordingly. Naturally, Ashley felt spurned and made off with a huff.

Quite honestly, apart from himself, Chakwas, and Kaiden—after Shepard explained to him the situation—not a soul was wise to the discovery. Failing to congregate a mandatory meeting in the comm room only exacerbated the petty rumours. Garrus was sure Shepard would break from the damn near senseless questioning, but she revealed no inkling of letting anything of the sort slip. He couldn't believe it, but part of him terribly missed the isolation of the cargo bay. Humans were all around quizzical and that irritated him. They couldn't control their urges of naivety, the want to always be at the helm of things. At least the freight never asked inexhaustible questions. He tapped his foot against the wall. _Relax. _

Lost in his thoughts, Garrus wanted to speak to Shepard, to gain a fix on where they were in terms of headway with Saren. However, she was all over the place! To have retrieved Kaiden from the infernal regions of hell itself was an admirable feat done in the shortest amount of time possible, and Shepard was doing her best to stay sanguine, optimistic, that he might have unearthed some beneficial results to explain further the intricacies of the mystery—but it all came to naught.

Garrus turned toward the medical bay. It had been far more than a couple of hours. The Normandy departed long after Kaiden had boarded. What was there really to do other than wait? Unless…

_Did she die? _It took but a second later for the swoosh of the doorway to travel in sound before Chakwas came out, and straightening up, Garrus turned to the woman, long-suffering and fatigued, though outwardly—admirably—stable. Putting forth an air of insouciance, even if a false front so as to ourposely contradict with that of the snooping crew on deck, Garrus spoke up. "You've been in there for a while, everything all right?"

"Garrus, I must find the Commander immediately. Do you know where she is?" said Chakwas, blunt.

Surprised by her boldness, he said, "If I had to guess, I'd say the command deck."

Before he had the chance to finish, Chakwas took her leave and ascended the staircase on the far opposite walls toward the CIC.

As she receded from view, Garrus returned to the door of the med-bay. It must have been important, mightily so. He loathed the curiosity that engulfed him in that moment for it was completely inconsistent to what he had mocked humanity of doing all but seconds ago, however, with Shepard and Dr. Chakwas out of sight, no one could stop him from feeding that very same interest—except perhaps his common sense. In the end, Garrus thought better of it, kept glued to the floor, and made sure nobody with the selfsame indistinguishable urges made similar endeavours.

* * *

Coexistent in that moment, Dr. Chakwas saw Commander Shepard consulting with Navigator Pressly on deck and with as much haste one could muster marched in her direction. Noting how predictably unengaged she was in the dialogue (it didn't come as a surprise), Chakwas knew it would make for a virtually effortless departure and patted her shoulder in an apologetic manner to which Shepard gladly accepted it. "It's not my intention to disrupt your conversations, Commander, but we need to talk. Preferably behind closed doors."

"Surely," said Shepard, turning away from Pressly, quick to counter.

Gesturing to the comm room located in the back of the ship's stern, Shepard followed Chakwas, albeit overheard Pressly, witless in his comment, asking if it had something to do with "the stranger that hitchhiked onto our ship?" As might be expected, the remark was ignored and the duo kept on course as Shepard was escorted by the good doctor who had taken the helm and entered the isolated space in the midst of the circular room—solemn.

Shepard frowned. "I'd ask for the good news first, but I'm starting to fear there isn't any. Prove me wrong?"

"Unlikely, Shepard," Chakwas said and started the update Shepard had been waiting for for quite some time. "I had to go above and beyond normal parameters of mere medical practice—antiseptics; sutures; and administrations of morphine and fentanyl were given to relieve pain. The body scans showed no allergic reactions to any medication and most traces of grime are gone. I've washed her hair to rid of the entanglements and remedied any and all exposures to the poisonous offshoots. I was surprised—unpleasantly so—to find her ill with a mild case of, well—pneumonia."

"Pneumonia? Wasn't that cured back in '28? Humanity discovered vaccines to purge the body of ever having to suffer through common colds and whatnot, right?"

"Yes," said Chakwas. "I'd say the heavy torrents on Pragia caused it. It would take at least forty-eight hours to achieve a case of inflammation this severe, and if I hadn't caught it when I did—"

"Shots like those are essential once hitting a certain age. I recall there being a law passed by the UNAS."

"Indeed. 13-years-old or older, if I'm correct, but according to the body scans, she had never been vaccinated."

"You fixed that?"

"That shot was administered less than a couple of hours ago. It should pass momentarily—inoculations can do wonders for a bodily system, I must say."

"These body scans," mentioned Shepard. "Notice anything unorthodox?"

"A rather...unconventional nervous system," paused Chakwas. "The human nervous system is vastly complex and coordinates innumerable processes via a host of chemical messengers called neurotransmitters. Neurotransmitters are used for everything from signalling the heart and lungs to function to enabling the body to sleep so regeneration and repair can occur, so—"

"English, doc? My translator doesn't do well with doctor-lingo."

"It seemed her body was deprived of essentials to allow normal body function—blood sugar and electrolyte levels were dangerously low."

"Odd how a body works," thought Shepard.

"She'll have to go through a dangerous state of convalescence, which—I hate to say—is much worse than people make it out to be," answered Chakwas.

A beat later and Chakwas's eyes veered, dubious, an instinctive reaction, and Shepard noted it right away, making a curious gesture with crossed arms.

"All of that sounds rather unfortunate, but you're not telling me something. Bring me up to speed?"

Chakwas hesitated. "Don't...be alarmed by this, Commander…but I made some rather disturbing discoveries in the interim."

"Clarification?"

"Well..."

Her voice was little more than a murmur, faint in tone. "Rapid eye movement. Unusual beta waves. Shifts of dream imagery. All of it—it's the same as when—"

"—as when I touched the beacon on Eden Prime."

Her impenetrable countenance gave little away and was impossible to interpret, however, Chakwas stood still and silent and with moderate incredulity mainly by the commander's lack of a surprised reaction. It was virtually unreadable, but it seemed near preposterous that she hadn't been fazed, even just a mite. It was as if she herself knew more than she let on…

"Damn it."

Uttered so softly, Chakwas hadn't believed it came from Shepard's lips, and cocked her head, intrigued. "Shepard, you don't seem…as stunned as I reckoned you'd be..."

Her inhale expressed a sort of tepid inevitability, doomed from the start, where words felt weighty as they left the lungs, dying with each flicker of the lips. "That's because I'd already had the idea in my head to start with. I mean, there was a chance, but I never thought—"

"Never thought what?"

Initially perplexed, Chakwas, before long, morphed a complicated visage that drenched of keen judgement, all part of what the Alliance system expected from people with her credentials, and slowly but surely, the lines of her face relaxed and the potency of daze remained.

"What exactly did you find on Pragia, Shepard?"

Averting her eyes in a dispute of her own, Shepard was torn at the idea. "Pragia was far more than just an affirmation of Saren's presence. Based off what we discovered after landing—"

Recollecting memories from times not long ago, the timbre of her voice died into a tiny whisper.

"—there was another Prothean beacon."

* * *

June 6th, 2183

23:00:16 [11:00PM]

The Past

Milky Way / Nubian Expanse / Dakka System / Pragia

One Day Earlier

The exquisite intricacy of tangled branches and lofty trees threatened anything that loitered beneath them, clumped and congested in a jungle that was ever so dense and startling. Its undomesticated wildlife, its declining flora—all of it was considered to be because of an absence of sunlight. There were twenty-nine hours in one day and even then, the sun's warmth, whenever present, was scarcely experienced. One could ask who in their right mind would colonise such a highly precarious world, overwhelmed by the germinations of industrially mutated plants with thick veils of gloomy clouds that obstructed penetration of the sun. Seclusion had made the terrain tight amidst stark overgrowth and left little room for exploration of any kind; narrowed passages existed here and there, but most would taper off into the more destructive thickets leading into the surly homes of disfigured creatures. No. Lush greenery and cultivated fields existed not. Only the bacterial diseased snarls of the never-ending abyss.

In daytime, it was a frightening scene. Dim and ominous.

But at night—in all its murkiness—it was worse.

The mass of black billows, out of which thunder crashed for miles around, blanketed the sky in hues of silver and metal and grey; lightening could be discerned from the far-flung corners of the world. It had no effect on heavy rains that descended from cloudbursts, which—as opposed to the standard duration of several minutes—lasted for hours. Winds, cruel in their strength, veered every so often, left to right, sending weaker trees toppling. Shepard was astonished by Joker's competence, to pilot an Alliance frigate in his condition and in such a turbulent storm, no less. "I'm dropping her on high ground, Commander!" exclaimed Joker, turning sideways to see Garrus and Kaiden accompanying the commander on the flight deck. "The navpoint of the distress signal is in the vicinity. It's an emergency signal locator, but—whoa, what the hell!" He felt Shepard bend the back of his chair to look past and better her view.

"Are those—geth?" Kaiden squinted.

The Normandy deviated from the expected route and shifted sharply over a stretch of spacious terrain that differed greatly from the labyrinths of wilderness that surrounded it. It was then the presence of the shiny, lustrous beings came to light and shimmered in the dark; each one—each geth—was distanced proportionately from one another, as if positioned there, on purpose, scattered across the expanse and acting as a sort of pathway that would lead elsewhere. _A signal?_

"Those geth aren't moving. They're inactive," realised Shepard. "They're dead."

"Or dormant," interjected Joker. "Either way, it pretty much indicates Saren's presence, doesn't it?"

"Seems doubtful Saren would be sending out distress calls though," Kaidan answered.

A chain of images, so wildly visible from within the mind, killed any and all other thoughts in submersion.

The geth, to all intents and purposes, had been disposed of—but why? By who?

"Get a hold of this," Joker spoke up and shattered his commander's musings, inadvertently.

Looking up, Shepard stared vacantly at a slightly distorted hologram the pilot brought to light, a photograph of an interference pattern that, suitably illuminated, produced a three-dimensional image of an ordinary structure spread out in front of them and located nearby amidst the multitude of trees. One could hardly tell what its purpose was or what it looked like. It was much too large to be a measly home, but there was some difficulty in proving such as plant overgrowth had unfurled thickly over the dimensions of the exterior and impersonated itself as one with the jungle. "Looks like that trail of inoperative geth leads straight to it."

"Or from it," suggested Shepard. "We need to get down there pronto, Joker. How's the Mako doing?"

"No way," said Joker. "We're going in hot. The Mako's busted all to hell from last time."

Pursing her lips, Shepard took in the options. The Mako wasn't essential for this type of landing lest they failed to find one suitable location to dock the Normandy.

"Distress signal's coming from within that structure, so I'll only assume you'll head there first?"

"That's the idea," finished Shepard, turning away from Joker and setting her heavy weapon pistol in one hand. "ETA?"

"T-minus three minutes and counting down, Commander. I'll have to park the girl a bit from the signal. Means you'll have a ways to go. Can't say I envy you, ma'am!" Joker fiddled with several dials on the dashboard, and due to the wonderfully adept pilot—having managed to land the Normandy unscathed—the seasoned trinity of soldiers disembarked only to respire in the bluish vapour of Pragia. Foul stenches of neglected ordure pervaded the air, wind screeched, and rain fell by the bucketful, putting Shepard and her team at an unfair disadvantage.

"The perfect hideaway for Saren," murmured Garrus. "Isolated. Unpopulated. Vids mentioned this was the occasional base of operations for those seeking refuge."

A double check of the emitted distress signal was all Shepard needed before setting about a weary plod. With just a wave of her hand, the team moved, cautious, and avoided the deep tyrannical jungles, sticking to territory open and wide, all in hopes of stumbling upon the insentient machines seen earlier. "Shepard, why exactly are we here? Anderson hadn't mentioned Pragia on the Citadel's docking bay. Was this something he asked you as a personal favour?" Kaiden asked.

"No," Shepard murmured. "It came from the Council's files directly—or so Anderson assured me. He said it had incriminating evidence of Saren—hence why we're here now."

"How does the Council have any leads on this? There's nobody here!"

"Not in my place to question it, Lieutenant. Only that I see it through," said Shepard, dispassionate, unaware of Kaiden's subtle, disapproved look before catching it by accident. "That doesn't mean I don't have questions about the whole damn thing, Kaiden, because believe me—I do."

It had been a total of twenty minutes, or so Shepard presumed, making their way from one place to the next. They arrived at the masses of idle geth strewn across vast grounds, and dispersed to investigate separately. "This one was victim to a pretty powerful biotic attack. The way its arms are missing indicates a combined pull and slam combo," said Kaidan, recording the evidence in his omni-tool.

"You got yourself a good one, then," added Garrus, crouched and adjacent of one machine, nonfunctioning, and riddled with holes from an assault rifle. "Mine is shot all to hell."

Sitting on her haunches, Shepard followed the movements, the gestures of the turian alongside another. _Who could have done this? S_he decided, then, that something had gone deeply awry. A beat later and a flickering bit of biotic light grasped her attention in the thickness of the night. Its gleam of azure radiance gyrated, aimless, before shrivelling into nothingness. Following it led to Kaiden, who had beckoned her near, whose gesture directed itself to the corpse of one krogan battlemaster armed to the teeth, brutally slain with an integrated usage of biotics and gun abuse. "Krogan? What're they doing here?" said Shepard.

"Didn't I hear Wrex say that Saren was seen with krogan bodyguards on his side? This could be them…"

"Taking down a krogan isn't like taking a stroll in the park, Shepard. This had to have been the work of a few mercenaries who knew what they were doing," said Garrus.

With a sigh, Shepard ordered them to keep moving. The priority was the distress beacon, nothing more. Tracking the geth, slain and slaughtered, had made that command, however, easier, for they acted conveniently as a pathway, leading directly to a structure—the very same seen from the Normandy—jammed uncomfortably tight beneath a slew of carob trees, those of awesome, imposing height. The entanglements of several overdeveloped and mutated vegetation smothered the outermost walls, but the team waited, standing outside of it, anticipating Shepard's orders who, as opposed to hastily entering the dilapidated walls, pondered its existence in the apparent emptiness of a jungle. "Looks like it hasn't been used in years," noted Kaidan.

"Only one way to find out," Garrus replied, treading toward the large double doors of the relatively small institution—an otherwise contradictory architectural design. Shepard did not object. They slunk to the entrance, overly wary, as if half expecting a wild animal to tackle them and, surprisingly so, the door was strictly manual, old school twenty-first century style where foliage and vines, green and gold, impeded their access and encrusted the entry. Nonetheless, it had already been disabled, from the looks of it, seemingly immobilised by a violent blow of energy or force. Kaiden manipulated his own powers to rid the entrance of its hinderances and pushed on. Once inside, it became self-evident—the falsehoods, that is—of the artificial facade to camouflage the institute for its true nature and element, for what it _really_ was. The extent of the area struck them as speckless, free from contamination of any sorts and back to a modernised state, glass windows, glossy barriers choked with artefacts and objects; columns of computers and beds fringed the whitest of walls opposite of them all constructed in a variety of pastel tones intended for a placid atmosphere, however, such ambience backfired. It emerged akin to that of a decorator's choice for a funeral home instead that tried, desperate, to replicate a person's bedroom, but lacked fervent personality. There were cold, institutional tile floors; fluorescent lights flickered, intermittent. It kept the room partially dark. An army of spare supplies sat by the side of beds; untouched IV poles; sheets of sterile white; and blue blankets similar to that of an eerie hospital room. Because of such supposed pristine purity, no one could have predicted the next display of dead bodies—a macabre series of murders—until Garrus cut the next corner.

Shepard, of course, was nowhere near staggered by the stench nor the sight unlike her compatriots, and as she crept forward, unhurried, she noted a cot amidst the lifeless frames in the centre of the room that was noticeably larger than the majority—the only one of its kind. Its aura presaged dire warnings to come beneath interior lights, ones that shone unsteadily and rapidly in brightness; a digital monitoring screen beeped erratically and incessantly as though malfunctioned; hollowed needles, copious and empty and used, sprinkled the ground adorned with the diversified remains of batarians, krogan, and humans, the latter of which bizarrely dressed in lab coat attire. Staring back at the bloodied cot, Shepard felt pity for whomever sat there.

"Guess we can add batarians and humans to the mix," Garrus mumbled.

"This place is one massacre right after another," said Shepard.

"Were they researchers?" asked Kaiden.

Garrus chuckled, "Batarian scientists? When's the last time you saw one of those?"

Shepard bent over, observing the body of one human scientist. His demise, however, was not as outwardly distinctive at first glance than the rest. Stuck in his jowl, a syringe—of astronomical proportions—stood upwards, where blood had coagulated around the edges of the wound. It was safe to assume he had been administered a lethal dosage of chemicals, dangerous, detrimental to a bodily system that resulted in his untimely and inevitable demise. Her eyes migrated from the body to to the floor of abundant tube all with unaccounted contents. "They could have been doing experiments here. Would take into account the syringes and lab suits."

"Looks like a joint effort. Batarians, krogan, humans," said Kaiden. "The last thing they wanted was attention—from anyone. Screams rogue-turian to me!"

"Let's not get overheated," Shepard assured as she gestured for Kaiden to record the evidence and stepped over the innumerable bodies, casual, as she did. No more time could be squandered on the subject. "Let's keep looking for the signal. Coordinates say it's close by."

Their thorough exploration resumed, with Shepard's squad acting as required of them and their abilities, however, the institute was quite minuscule for its outwardly large design scale. The exploration of it took no less than five minutes, at the most. The only legitimate muddle challenged against them was but a locked door that demanded decryption and bypass in the climax of their pursuit. "Slap some omnigel on it," commanded Shepard to Garrus, deducing that, after a peek at her omni, the distress beacon was located in inconveniently latched room.

After a second or two, the doors self-activated and the first thing to manifest was the pale figure of a human researcher, garbed in a shade of white and black and thick-rimmed spectacles. He appeared cold and wrinkled and distant, lying on the floor in an inelegant maze of twisted limbs, as if he had never been loved or cared for, however, those times had come and gone—for him, anyway. Turning aside, Shepard started toward notable machinery in the back of the tiny room, one that flashed knowing winks at her team. It squawked and emitted high-pitched sounds at an insufferable rate, indicating that it was, indeed, the distress beacon. She wasted no time in clicking the assorted buttons spread about it which altogether diminished the shrill screech to a halt and allowed her to examine it with a fine tooth comb. What she hadn't expected, however, was the holographic image that materialised from it moments later.

"There's a datalog programmed in it..." Unthinkingly, Shepard actuated the machine, started up its signal, and after, a warped and misshapen picture surfaced and unveiled the very selfsame room that she stood in, however, the body on the floor was nowhere to be seen, and a date in the corner of the orange-tinted image blinked: two-days-ago galactic time.

Furrowing her brows, Shepard watched curiously as a man, a scientist, anonymous and patently the very same on the ground, leapt into the contained space, evading, best as he could, the airborne bullets, the shafts of vivid blue light spurting across the hall in the main room. Locking the door behind him via omni-tool, the scientist aimed to keep safe from the bloodbath he found himself in, however, he was reduced now to a shrivelling spirit that looked to fear anything and everything. His breath was heavy, plainly frightened, but he regained composure at the sight of an electronic machine at the fore of him, recognising the apparatus for what it was, which proved easy. It was insurance, positioned there lest unfavourable events were to occur within the facility and apparently, the occasion called for it. He scrambled to a vertical stance and crashed the keys of the equipment, shouting hysterically. _"Is this thing on!"_

_"W—We're under attack—we need help! I—It was stupid for us to think this would work! W—We shouldn't have tried it! What did The Boss think he was doing w—with that damn Spectre turian! And now—this!"_

Bawls of the unrestrained sort could be heard in the background—battle cries, even. Roars exclusive only to krogan could be interlaced with calls unique only to batarians and humans, almost as if a violent struggle of sorts took place right outdoors.

_"I've locked myself and activated this beacon, for reasons for which I won't divulge, b—but I'm thinking for myself! I should have never been apart of this! Damn him—and damn her!"_

Shepard tipped her head ninety degrees, puzzled by the accusations.

_"O—Once I get out of here, I'm going to—ah! Oh—no. Not now! I—"_

It all transpired too quickly. He spoke at fervent speeds, nonsensical, gibberish. His legs buckled beneath him. Jaw drooped a significant amount. He clung to his chest. His eyes terror-stricken, rolling into the back of his head before he crumpled to the ground like that of a rag doll. The datalog blacked out forthwith and the holographic screen vanished, leaving the rest to imagination. Shepard, however, peered calmly at the man below her, frozen forevermore in the same perished position.

"You mean to tell me this panty-waist died of a heart attack?" Kaiden asked, stunned.

"Had it easy," scoffed the turian. "Compared to the rest of them? He was blessed."

"Well," said Shepard, "at least we found the beacon, but now we have more questions then answers. He mentioned a turian Spectre—had to be Saren."

"Why would Saren employ batarians and humans? No one has ever seen him with the sort. They had to have been part of something else—a personally owned mercenary group," groaned Garrus.

"There was a battle here. The vid corroborates the evidence," said Shepard.

"Maybe Saren was working with someone?" guessed Kaiden. "Joint-operation that went wrong?"

With a few clicks and beeps, Shepard put a hand to her ear to contact her helmsman, leaving the teammates to theorise. "Joker, we found the distress beacon and deactivated it—"

"Copy, Shepard. What did you guys manage to find?"

"Death. Lots of it."

"What's new?"

"I'm not making any plans to leave. Give me an hour, tops. Any longer and you contact me, all right?"

"Understood, Commander."

"Let's see how much more there is to find," said Shepard.

And so, they persisted.

Their inspection of the building was rigorous and to which housed the dead and questions of many and, before long, the trio had taken their leave via the exit at the opposite end outside into the fall of precipitation above, pitting the dirt. Having fully concluded their investigation inside the building, it was clear no further intel could be gained.

However, as they thronged outside into the fall of rain, what happened, then, stopped them in their tracks, took them all by surprise. Standing stupefied, hit by and large, there in front of them was the unmistakable evidence of an artefact they hoped never to see again—at least not so soon. "Christ," Kaiden's voice drawled. Not swayed in the least, Shepard eagerly slogged her way through the greyish slush, in which she sensed a tug wrenching the veins of unnatural intuition that resulted in waves of importance at the core. The abandoned technology left behind a scent of intimidation that Shepard identified, inherently, despite its tricky and awkward backdrop in the midst of overflowing rain. The suggestive remnants hypothesised the worst.

That a Prothean beacon had once been stored there.

Not safely, no, but rather, haphazardly. The similarities between the site and Eden Prime were practically hurling itself at Shepard and beaming memories and mysteries and concepts at her that were easily identified, but not quite as easily justifiable or explained. The scope of the area was broad, extensive, with a spherical aperture shaped into the boggy soil where something large and hefty had been set. Shepard didn't require any more proof than presented to make certain the conjecture was a genuine and true fact. The closer they got, the more quiet and monosyllabic they seemed to become. Her face remained in its unknowable state. "There was a Prothean beacon here..." It was, however, long gone by now, though the plain fact abided.

For Saren to have once been on-world was bad, but the very simple, very elementary idea that another Prothean beacon existed—functioned, even!—was worse.

The very high, very inconvenient probability that Saren was in possession of it didn't help matters.

"If a beacon was here—which I know it was—that means Saren has it. That means he was here. That means he's in good business," declared Shepard.

"I'm not one to go around my hand to get to my thumb, Shepard," said Kaiden.

"That's child's play compared to what we have to do now."

"Even so, sure as hell makes for a messy departure. Even for a Spectre, that's pretty off-the-wall," added Garrus.

"Saren was always known as the volatile type," the Lieutenant answered.

Foggy with sleep, Shepard lowered her head in a moment's pondering. The only person who could answer for it all was the one whom offered the information in the first place.

_David. _"There's still a bit of ground to cover. It he's got Prothean technology—working Prothean technology—we need to redouble our efforts," said Shepard.

"What makes turians any different from humanity? If you couldn't decipher the message, what makes you think he can? Maybe he's just as lost as us?"

"Always assume the worst-case scenario, Garrus. Set your standards too high and you'll only end up disappointed," she replied. Looking a few feet out, Shepard "Lieutenant, I want you and Garrus to head into the jungle. Those footsteps—"

Gesturing to the ground, Shepard made Garrus and Kaiden cognisant of the collection of tracks she had spotted nearby. Most had been drowned out by the deluge of rain, smeared, blackened, however, a few recent marks kept their print in the miry expanse. The sizes of the footsteps varied—most were large, thick, and fat, but one set of tracks seemed to diametrically oppose the rest—they were tiny, smaller, individualistic. Luckily, the dense fog and torrential rains hadn't stopped the commander from distinguishing such obvious traces and, to all intents and purposes, they led straight into the hub of the jungle, a great distance away from unenclosed spaces. "This wasn't over. Not for him. From the looks of it, something set them off like damn spoorers—"

"Can't say I'm familiar with that term," mentioned Garrus.

"Explain it on the way," said Shepard to Kaiden, not missing a beat. The valourous twosome proceeded, simultaneous, in the northerly direction of the footprints and neither bothered nor burdened Shepard for they refused to inconvenience her with questions pertaining to her motives. More often than not, she had personal agendas of her own; being a congenital intellect forced her to be that way; to look elsewhere apart from the conspicuous choices in terms of what—and what not—to pursue. One always had to expect the unexpected, to keep on her toes, aware as she scented through uncharted areas; the not so lamely—arbitrary, nontraditional—routes.

The soldiers receded from view into the oversized boughs of trees and Shepard, looking into the starless sky opaque with blackness, felt overwhelmed. There wasn't room for distractions, however. Not by nature's phenomenons. Everything was about Saren now, his capabilities, his actions. The fact, harrowing in its context, that somehow, someway, the rogue Spectre could potentially utilise this technology to his advantage maddened her. Then again, it didn't account for all the massacre—not on Pragia, precisely, a planet unable to speak for itself, having been cruelly segregated from the outside world. To sequester oneself here of all places, though, was genius. It was that uncanny erudition—of thinking critically—that greatly troubled Shepard, and if this was what defined Saren, this type of reasoning and evaluation, then that selfsame trouble was most definitely, undeniably, merited.

* * *

June 7th, 2183

18:10:35 [8:10PM]

The Present

Horse Head Nebula / Fortuna System

SSV Normandy

As shocking as the confession was, and to which no doubts could ever challenge otherwise, Chakwas managed to maintain an air of composure that centred more on the thoughts of a highly pensive manner. This demeanour, she knew well, would drag on for hours, even days, before fully registering the events in the order in which they were received. A swarm of theories dwelled aimlessly, in chains of hesitancy, that consisted of whether or not this girl, this stranger, would become hazardous to the group. Then again, the good doctor would not let that get to her. Regardless of the power struggle between good-vs-evil, she had made an oath to remedy anyone and everyone, friend or foe. Things weren't about to change now…

Time elapsed painfully slow, however, for Shepard who, after divulging the truth of her findings on Pragia, couldn't restrain the urge to make sense of it all. The hundreds of thousands of things she wished to do could not be done and that inability surely beget frustration. Firstly, talk to Anderson. Find out where exactly his intel originated from and why—if so secretive it was—Pragia was so exponentially important as he claimed it to be. Secondly, talk to _her_, the girl, the stranger. That task proved to be a tad more difficult considering the delicate circumstances surrounding it. The foreigner was a viable source of information regarding Saren—or so Shepard adamantly believed to be true, but now the supposed existence of a newly discovered beacon—one to which they had no intelligence on whatsoever—complicated matters.

With how it all sounded, the questions left unanswered racked her brain to bits. Realising halfway through the trip back, Shepard put two and two together and couldn't debunk the possibility of the girl having come into contact with the beacon. It was far-fetched, yes, and—for that very reason—Shepard had doubted it's veracity—at least until Chakwas revealed otherwise. But there was some unsettling comfort in that fact for it meant Shepard was no longer in the game alone. _In terms of the visions._ Besides Saren, who else could fathom all that she had seen? She had such unbelievable strife in explaining the visions to herself, much less to anyone else who asked or challenged it. This girl very well could have witnessed something to clarify what she could not and, if so, would she be willing to discuss it? To talk of what she may or may not have seen? Would she understand? Would she even care? The inquiries were many, and many that needed answers, but the days since Eden Prime lengthened to a point where it nearly felt indefinite. What if she never woke up?

Sturdy walls acted as support for Shepard's reluctant posture, chewing over courses of action in her room before Chakwas walked in. The doors, even in all its soundlessness, caught her attention from the get-go. Dr. Chakwas stood in front of her, lifted her eyes for all but a second, hard in appearance. Shepard straightened, hopeful to hear good news, but conjecturing it impossible. Not with the way the doctor presented herself in that tense moment.

The following words reinstated that belief easily and, at the same time, roused her.

"She's awake."


End file.
